Law of the Jungle
by BlackIceWitch
Summary: 5th in Ramble On series. Life for the Winchesters almost seems stable until there are disturbing signs that someone is manipulating the forces of Nature, sending the monster populations out of control, and looking for particular bloodlines, putting Dean and Sam and their children into the firing line. Dean/OFC. Sam/OFC. Follows Awakening. No slash. No spoilers.
1. Chapter 1 Salt'n'Burn

**Law of the Jungle**

**Chapter 1: Salt'n'Burn**

* * *

_**October, Winterset, Iowa**_

Dean slowed down until the black car was at walking pace, peering out from side to side along the road.

"Where did Sam say this place was?" he muttered to Ellie, who was sitting beside him, calculating distances from the map she held and the mileage counter of the car.

"Here." She looked out at the thin forest that lined the road they were on in both directions, as far as they could see. "It's supposed to be right here."

Ahead of them, Dean could see a gravelled wayside on the right. He pulled in and stopped the car, turning the engine off and glancing around again.

"Well, it's not. Unless the town is actually built in the forest without access roads."

She handed him the map and pulled out her phone, frowning down at it.

The town clearly marked, it even had a railway crossing near the centre, although they hadn't seen a line for over twenty miles. He looked at it, checking the roads they'd come in on, and the distances, brows drawn together. He put it back on the seat and looked at her.

"Either we're wrong, or the map's wrong." He raised a brow. "Which do you think?"

"Neither." She looked past him to the other side of the road. "I think the town's here, but we're not seeing it."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to do better than that," he said, closing one eye. "What I'm seeing is a lot of trees."

Ellie gave him a half-smile and peered around them. "You know those half-assed holographic pictures we saw down at the markets in Corvallis in summer? Where if you tilt the picture one way, you see one image, and if you tilt the other way you see a totally different image?"

He nodded, mouth compressed, not liking this explanation anymore than he'd liked any of the possibilities he'd come up with. "Sure, yeah. You think we're sandwiched in some sort of giant cheapo holograph?"

"Not exactly." She opened the door and stepped out of the car, closing it behind her. Dean blinked. She'd vanished, the minute her feet had touched the ground.

"Ellie?" He shifted across the seat, staring at the forest that started only a few yards away. "Ellie!"

The door opened and Ellie got back in. "More like a divisional slip between planes. I think the ghosts are doing it."

"What the fuck? Where'd you go?" He stared at her.

"Into the town." She looked through the windshield and gestured up the road. "There's a motel about a hundred yards up the road, Dean. They even have a vacancy. I'll tell you where to turn and where to stop."

He slid back behind the wheel, and started the engine, pulling out onto the empty road and tooling slowly up until she indicated the left turn.

"Stop here. We're right next to the ice machine, and we'll use that as a marker to find the car when we need to get out."

"What do you mean, find the car?"

"Mmmm… once you're out of the car, you can't actually see it anymore," she said, looking in the other direction.

"What?" He stared at her. "How is that good?"

"Come on." She smiled and got out, disappearing as the door shut on its own.

He looked at the small, wilted pine he'd parked beside and shook his head. _Transdimensional ghost-hunting. Sam was gonna love it._

He got out of the car, turning back inside to grab the canvas bag from the back seat, and looked around, closing the door but keeping his hand on the roof. She was right. They were in the town. He was standing in an unremarkable asphalt parking lot, a row of single story motel rooms enclosing two sides, a free-standing and dingy-looking office on the other side. The motel's sign stood beside the driveway they'd just pulled in, red neon lit and one letter hanging forlornly by its wire and blinking intermittently.

The road had no traffic, and as he turned slowly to look down the way they'd come, something nagged at him, looking at the cars that were parked along the other side, in front of the dozen or so shopfronts that had appeared.

He looked at his hand, which seemed to be hanging in the air, and followed the shape of the car down to the trunk, feeling with his fingertips for the the lock and looking down in bemusement as he found the slot for the key and pushed it in, the half-a-key hanging in the air. He shook off the Dali overtones and turned it, rolling his eyes as the lid lifted and the trunk remained invisible. He knew every gun, knife, bag and box in there but it still took several minutes to locate what he wanted by feel and pack into the gear bag that lay equally invisible inside.

Ellie came back across the lot from the office, holding a key to a room. They might be in the Twilight Zone, but they still needed some place to sleep, and some place to work out exactly how to put this town back the way it should have been. He felt around for the handles of the gear bag and yanked it out, then closed the trunk lid and removed the key, following her to room number eleven, a few feet from where the car was parked. He glanced back over his shoulder and looked at the empty space in front of the ice-machine. Where the car was parked in the real world, he amended to himself.

* * *

"So the whole town is haunted?" Dean looked down at the file that lay open on the table in front of him.

"Looks like." Ellie looked at the small stove that was all that the kitchenette in the room had to offer for heating water. She bent, looking in the narrow cupboards beneath the counter and pulled out an old-fashioned kettle, filling it at the sink and turning on the electric burner of the stove. The motel provided coffee, in a jar, a brand she didn't recognise. Next to the jar, a tin of creamer was unopened.

"How are we supposed to find the foci?" He flipped through the pages, skimming over the mix of official reports, grainy newspaper copies and handwritten notes that Dwight had put together for them.

"The original reports of the haunting are at the back of the file. A house, somewhere near the cemetery. There were a couple of deaths when a family moved into it, in, uh, '76 I think, and then it was quiet for a while, then a whole lot more deaths in '79," she said, glancing over at him.

He turned to the back, finding the clippings, the police and coroner's reports, and started reading.

An hour later, he finished the last of the cold cup of coffee and closed the file, looking down at his notes. Whatever was going on, the house was definitely the starting point. He pulled the map of the town closer. About a half-mile to the cemetery, a little further along to the house.

"We should have a look at this place in daylight, you know," he called out, looking around the room. Ellie came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

"Yep." She went to the bed and picked up her bag, pulling out clean clothes and getting dressed. "I don't think we can take the car."

"Why not?" His brows started to draw together at the thought of leaving her here alone – well, not here, exactly, worse, she'd be in the forest alone.

"I don't think we'll be able to find the house when we're in it."

"Why is the car in the other plane, and we can move between them, by the way?" he asked, as the thought occurred to him.

"I don't know." She sat on the bed and pulled on her boots.

"Not crazy about leaving her here," he said, watching her transfer her wallet to her jacket.

"I know." She smiled at him. "Can't be helped. I don't have a great feeling about this place and I'd like to get out of here as soon as we can."

He nodded. "Yeah, I hear that."

* * *

The house wasn't hard to find. On a rise behind the cemetery, it sat in a large, wild garden, with a single gravelled access road leading to it. In the mid-afternoon sunshine, it looked peaceful, a nondescript two-storey clapboard home, possibly the original farmhouse in the area, a little weatherworn but not decrepit.

They picked their way up the driveway, now almost covered with grass and lined on both sides by rose bushes that had grown wild, long, thorny branches reaching for each other across the cleared ground. Every once-domesticated plant in the garden had grown tall and wide, and between them the ground was padded with years of leaf-fall, this year's drop blowing and tumbling over everything, a crackling carpet of red and brown and gold.

Dean looked at his EMF, watching the needle on the gauge jump up and fall, the device yawping and yeeing madly as they approached the building. Ellie glanced at it, and tightened her grip on the pump action shotgun she carried.

The front door was solid and locked when they reached out. She pulled out the small pick gun and slid the end into the lock, pressing the button. The clack of the lock's mechanism being released was very loud in the still fall air, and they both looked around, half-expecting an outraged home-owner to emerge and demand to know what they thought they were doing. Nothing happened, and she pushed the door wide open, revealing a short wide hall with a staircase to the left, and two doors opposite each other just before it.

The EMF continued to jump and fall as they entered, Dean turning to the left, and opening the door to a long, narrow living room, Ellie turning taking the right hand door, walking into a smaller room, perhaps the parlour, still furnished and decorated in the colours and patterns of the '70s, the small, overstuffed couch and matching armchairs arranged in front of a massive and ancient television.

They backed out of their respective rooms and Dean looked at the door beside the stairs, nodding as Ellie walked forward and opened it. A narrower hallway led to the back of the house, dining room on the right and then a kitchen with three doors leading off it, the back door half-paned in glass. Dust lay everywhere, a coating several millimetres thick, undisturbed by vermin or anything else that she could see.

She lifted the barrel of the shotgun and drifted silently over the floor to the first of the two other doors that pierced the interior wall, glancing back at Dean. He followed, his own sawn-off's barrels rising as he stared at the EMF. The needle continued to flicker up and down. Ellie twisted the knob and pushed the door open, and they looked into a long narrow room, lined with empty shelves.

The last door, she thought, would be the basement, turning from the pantry and moving along the wall. Dean paced with her, about six feet away, his gaze still on the softly muttering device in his hand. The basement door handle was older, an iron lifting latch and Ellie had to get closer, lifting the latch and pushing at the door, which swung open onto a set of wooden steps leading down into the darkness.

The air that rose up was earthy and dank, and she wrinkled her nose, extracting a flashlight from her jacket pocket and flicking it on, holding it alongside the barrel of the shotgun as she looked down the light beam. The steps were illuminated to the bottom, and she could see that the floor was dirt. The light shone on one corner of what might have been a workbench, a massive vice bolted to its end. With an inward sigh, she put her foot onto the first step and started down cautiously.

"_VeeeEEE-AWP_!" Dean jumped as the EMF screamed at him, looking up to see Ellie disappear on the second step.

"Fuck NO!" He reached the doorway in a single stride and teetered on the edge of the first step, his hand swinging out wildly in front of him.

* * *

Ellie felt the shift as she came onto the third step and stopped, looking around. The wooden steps under her feet were harder, a concrete staircase leading down. She stared at the concrete floor at the bottom of the basement steps, her light flicking around as she took in the changes – the smooth, faux wood panelling that now lined the walls, the disappearance of the dank, graveyard smell – she could smell pizza, cheap synthetic carpet and traces of pot now, wafting up from the room or rooms below.

_Another doorway?_ The thought seemed preposterous, but the evidence was in front of her. She looked down and back. The second step must be the way through. She backed up to it, but nothing happened. _Perfect. One way_. There would be another way out, she thought, pushing aside the creeping tendril of doubt that rose with it. She walked down the stairs and into a refurbished room, painted in psychodelic shades of lime green and brilliant orange. A full-size billiards table stood to one side, and at the end she could see a stereo system taking up an entire wall, the monstrous bass speakers six foot high and four foot wide. In the centre of the room, bean bags and floor cushions surrounded a long, low tiled table, which was covered with empty pizza boxes, ashtrays and a half a dozen home-made bongs. Despite the lingering smells, there was no one down there. She walked the perimeter of the room, looking for another way out, but whoever had turned this basement into a rumpus room or play room or hang out for his teenagers had been thorough. The walls and floor had been lined, and covered and the stairs she'd come down were the only way in or out.

She turned around and headed back for them, stepping on each one, just in case, but she reached the top and pushed open the door without being returned to the plane she'd left.

The kitchen was the same layout, but the décor had been changed. She looked around at the bright yellow walls, shining with gloss paint, at the woodgrain laminex cupboard fronts and gleaming white tiled counters, the café curtains that covered each of the windows and the half-glass of the back door, the thick cotton material showing a spiral pattern that drew the eye into it, relieved by large and small solid circles of lime and red. _I'm going to need my sunglasses if I stay around here too long_, she thought, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Unlike the kitchen they'd entered, this one was clean and new-looking, surfaces wiped, glasses sparkling on an open shelf, cut flowers bright against the dark cupboards, still fresh and dewy from being cut that morning.

She walked through the open doorway to the hall, and stopped. She could hear movement, noise from outside. Walking quickly to the front door, she opened it and looked over the porch to the street. Where the cemetery had been, there were a multitude of houses, and she could see a man pushing a lawnmower along the verge of his, several children riding their bikes down the driveway of another. She stepped back and closed the door, leaning back against the wall.

_Alternative universe? A reality that branched off from the one she'd come through? It seemed around the same time-frame, somewhere in the 1970's_, she thought, her judgement purely based on the décor in the house.

She looked at the living room, partly visible through the open sliding doors. Like the rest of the house, it looked lived in, used. She was going to have a hard time explaining her presence in the house if the owners came home. The stairs were in front of her, and she started up them, her boots soundless on the thick purple shag pile that covered them.

* * *

Dean stared helplessly down the wooden steps. Follow her through or get back to the motel and see if she was in the car? Had she returned to that reality? There couldn't be another one … could there?

He heard a noise at the front of the house and spun around, the EMF squawking. Shifting his grip on the sawn-off he ran through the doorway and into the hall, catching a movement in his peripheral vision on the stairs and throwing himself forward, twisting to land on his back, the shotgun pointing up the staircase.

Ellie looked at him, frozen in place halfway down.

"For fuck's sake, I could have killed you!" he growled, lowering the barrels and rolling to his feet. "Where were you? How'd you get back?"

She walked down the rest of the stairs and looked at him. "Some alternative reality, I think. Same house, but things were different there. I was going up the stairs when I was zapped back here. Although … I think it was stuck sometime in the past."

He shoved the EMF into his pocket and grabbed the edge of her jacket, pulling her close, his arm curling around her back. She felt the tension in the arm that held her and looked up.

"How long was I gone?"

"A few seconds." He looked at her expression and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "You'd just disappeared on the basement steps when I heard the noise at the front."

"Huh." She thought about that. "It felt like about fifteen minutes, in the other house."

"This … place … has too many wormholes. From now on, we're sticking together, okay?"

"Yeah, definitely." She tucked her flashlight back in her pocket and slipped her arm around him.

"You know, I was really looking forward to a haunting. Just a plain old simple haunting where we find the bodies and we set them to rest," he grumbled over her head.

She snorted. "Yeah, I know. I was too."

He looked down at her. "This is the place though, huh? Where whatever this is started?"

She pulled in a deep breath. "I think so. It's definitely the nexus for the conjunctions, but to be honest, I can't think of a reason for all these doorways, for any reason why it would be happening here. There's nothing in the file to indicate a history like that."

He looked up the stairs she'd just come down. "Do you want to check up there?"

"I think we'd better be a bit more prepared before we do any more exploring in here," she said, looking warily at the stairs as well. "I've got an idea for how we can map this place, but I need some stuff from the room."

Dean nodded, and turned for the front door, opening it and closing it behind them. Outside the afternoon light was almost gone, the sky already turning purple to the east.

They walked down the road and cut through the cemetery, coming out onto a quiet street behind the main street.

"I'm starving."

Ellie glanced at him, and nodded. "So'm I."

"Think there'll be anywhere in this burg that'll have decent food?" He looked at the silent houses, dark and unlit.

"The motel office was manned." She shrugged. "There are some people here."

"What's with that, anyway?" He frowned as he thought about what they'd seen. "Where we came in, there was no one, no houses, no town. Then when we get out of the car, there's a town but hardly anyone around, and everything looks like it hasn't been used in years." He looked at the row of parked cars in front of the houses of the street they walked along. "Look at these. Nothing here that's later than … 1979." He veered from the road and walked up to the Oldsmobile he was staring at.

"Even the registration is '79." The car was in immaculate condition, except that it was covered in dust and grime.

Ellie stopped, looking at the car. "I don't know."

"How many time lines are converging here?" For the first time, there was a genuine worry in his voice.

"At least three. Maybe more." She shivered as a vagrant breeze blew toward them up the street. "Come on, we can have this discussion inside, where it's warmer."

He looked down at the Olds, his mouth twisting. He reached out with one hand and touched the hood, half-expecting his hand to pass through the metal, not entirely reassured when it hit the smooth surface, and picked up a half-pound of dust with the sweep.

Brows still drawn together, he stepped off the sidewalk and walked back to Ellie, wiping his hand on his jeans.

"I guess this is why no other hunters have taken this place on," he said quietly as she turned and fell into step with him.

Ellie looked up as the streetlights came on, throwing their shadows in front of them. "Maybe no one else could find it."

* * *

They left the guns in the motel room and walked down the main street together, looking from side to side at the empty shopfronts. Down at the end of the block a brightly-lit blue neon sign proclaimed Hal's Bar & Diner, and Dean smiled as they climbed the short flight to the door, looking in through the glass panes at the interior.

Inside, it was warm, the air slightly blue from the cigarette smoke drifting to the ceiling. On one side of the room, a long counter extended almost from the front door down the room two thirds of its length. The top was a patterned red Formica, and stools were placed at intervals along it, most of them filled now with the locals. The other side held a dozen tables, also topped in the same red Formica, and most of them filled as well. At the rear, another shorter bar crossed the room, a mirror behind it reflecting the shelves of bottles, a juke box, playing something quietly, several tables and a pool table taking up the last third of the room. Neon and old-fashioned advertisements covered the walls, and turning to the long counter, Dean noticed the soda fountain, backed by shelves of thick, curved soda glasses.

"I haven't seen a place like this in years," he said, grinning as he looked at the menu, chalked on a board above the counter. His grin got wider when he saw the pie case, near the swinging door at the other end that led into the kitchen.

Ellie looked around, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the décor, the men and women seated at the tables and bar and counter, the cigarette smoke in the air.

"No one has seen a place like this in years," she said softly. The smells from the kitchen seemed real enough, she thought, pushing at Dean to move forward.

They ordered and found a small table in the front corner, giving them a good view of the whole room. Dean looked at the bar and glanced at her.

"I'm going to get a beer – you want anything?" He pushed back his chair and got up.

"Yeah, same for me." She nodded, looking past him. Most of the customers were in their mid-thirties to early forties, their clothing a mix of denim and polyester, the paisleys and stripes and swirls occasionally broken up with fringed leather and tie-dyed dresses and shirts. They were so in the '70s, she thought. The collars of the shirts were ridiculously long and pointed, the ties that some of the men were wearing had to be more than six inches wide, several women were wearing flowers in their long, loose hair, others showing off skyhigh afros.

At the bar, Dean nodded to the man next to him, and ordered two beers from the bartender, a pretty girl in her early twenties, with long blonde hair that reached her waist. Now that he was closer, he recognised the song playing on the juke box, the volume low but the music unmistakable. His mother had sung the song sometimes, along with the radio, in Kansas when he'd been small. _California Dreamin'_, he thought, by the Mamas and Papas.

He was frowning again as he carried the beers back to their table, a glance at Ellie's face showing that she'd noticed the differences as well.

"So we're in the '70s," he said without preamble, setting the glasses down.

"I don't think this is an alternative time line, Dean," she said softly. "Look at these people. I think that time maybe just stopped here, sometime around '79."

"That would explain the cars, I guess." He exhaled and picked up his beer. "And the fact that the phones and the laptop aren't working."

"Yeah." She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips slowly. "If something happened here, something that started the haunting maybe, it could have had an effect on the whole town."

"How?" He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. "How is that possible?"

She looked up as the waitress brought their food, burgers piled high, surrounded by a mound of fries, glistening with oil and crusted with salt. Dean breathed in appreciatively.

"At least the food is good." He picked up the burger and took a bite, his eyes rolling up slightly as the tastes hit his tongue. Ellie smiled at his expression, the smile fading as she thought about his question.

"I don't know how. But we need to get a good look around this place before we go back to that house."

"Yeah." He picked up the bottle of ketchup and squirted some onto the pile of golden fries. "Tomorrow."

He looked up at the menu. "You think they do breakfast here?"

* * *

Dean looked speculatively at the television set in the corner of the room as he set a bottle of beer on the low table for Ellie. She was sitting on the couch, hunched over the file on the table, reading through the copies of the press clippings, her murmured thanks indicating that she'd barely noticed him.

He walked over to the set, and turned it on, the big knobs and the cloth-covered speakers to either side reminding him of the years of travelling with his father and his baby brother. A lot of the TVs had looked like this in the hundreds of motels they'd lived in back then.

The television speakers hummed quietly, the picture tube warming up, then burst into life, the colours a little wonky and over-bright, the edges of the picture a little blurry to his eyes, but the show unmistakable.

_Staightnin' the curves  
Flatnin' the hills  
Someday the mountain might get 'em  
But the law never will_

_Makin' their way_  
_The only way they know how_  
_That's just a little bit more_  
_Than the law will allow._

He adjusted the volume and backed away from the set, sitting down when he felt the couch on the back of his legs.

Ellie looked up. "You're kidding, right?"

He glanced at her. "What? I haven't seen this in years!"

"Kind of in the middle of something here?" She gestured to the file over the table. "You know, the fact that we have a haunting that also involves a time-slip?"

"Hey, this might be the only perk I get out of this case," he said, looking back at the television. "Just this one show, I'll get back to it when it's over."

She snorted and picked up her beer, leaning back and swallowing a mouthful.

The press clippings were vague, she thought, tuning out the music and tyre-squealing and explosions of the show, on the original event that had precipitated the haunting. A family murdered in 1966 in the house behind the cemetery, the local police baffled and the FBI brought in to work the case. The official report had been vague as well. They'd arrested and jailed a vagrant for the murders, but the evidence had been thin, and mostly circumstantial. The vagrant had died in jail in 1968, from pneumonia. Nothing really unusual about it, except that she thought he hadn't committed the murders.

The house had remained unoccupied for ten years. In 1976, the Thompson family had moved in – father, mother, two girls. A nice, ordinary nuclear family. No history of mental illness, violence or … anything really. Two months later, the mother had taken the girls and run, out of state presumably since none of the reporters had been able to find her. The father had been found in the house, his body scattered around the ground floor rooms in several pieces. House was locked from the inside. The cops didn't find a point of entry.

She tipped the beer up again, and leaned forward, tapping the end of the pencil against the file's cover.

The house was empty for another three years, then another family had bought it cheap in '79. The family disappeared on the night of October 30. She wasn't sure if that date was meaningful or not. The night before Halloween, All Hallow's Eve, Samhain in the Wiccan calendar. They'd moved in a week earlier. The '76 family had moved into the house in September, and the father's body found in early November. Was the timing significant? Why the jump from ten years to three? Or was that just that victims were available?

She flipped back through the reports. The family who'd moved in in 1979 and disappeared had been the McCallisters'. Mom, Dad, three teenage sons and a nine year old daughter. She thought of the refurbished basement, of the billiards table and the stereo, the electric guitars and pizza boxes. Maybe they hadn't disappeared, really. Maybe they were still alive and kicking, just in a different dimension, one where the town had undergone significant development. She put the bottle down and stared at the file. There had to be a library in the town.

* * *

Ellie closed her eyes tighter, pushing the pillow against her ear. The noise kept on. She rolled over, sliding her hand up his chest and resting her fingers over his lips and the noise stopped.

"Dean, you're humming."

His eyes opened and he looked at her. "Yeah, sorry, can't get the song out of my head."

"I get that."

He smiled, and pressed his lips against her temple, shifting his arm so that she settled against him.

"When I was a kid, that's kind of how I thought hunting was gonna be, with Dad and Sammy, the three of us taking everything on," he laughed uncomfortably, "in a really cool car."

She wasn't sure where he heading with this look into the past, so she waited. He was silent for a moment.

"I thought nothing would ever get bad, you know, not really bad, because we were together and we were a team," he continued slowly. "Even when it did, when one of us was lying in the hospital because something had ripped the crap of us, it didn't seem to be – I don't know, it didn't seem to be all that bad." He frowned as he remembered several stays in hospitals, when he'd been torn up, or Sam had, or his father.

"Sam hated it. I think, even then, when he really was a kid, he knew how close to the edge we were, and that scared him," he said softly. "I didn't see it. I thought it was all normal and pretty good."

"When did that change for you?" she asked him, feeling that there was something behind this, something he wanted to get clear.

"Uh … in '99, I think." His arm tightened around her. "Just a regular ghost hunt, and Dad took off, left us to it. We found one of the bodies, but got trapped in the house, and Sam …" he trailed off, and she felt him tensing. "Sam, uh, was thrown across the room, into some old plumbing. Pipe punctured his lung."

She bit her lip, listening past the words to a pain that ran very deeply in him. He felt her stillness, and looked down at her, dragging in a deep breath.

"I had to do everything on my own, and it hit me then," he said, his voice very low. "It wasn't a good life, I wouldn't have my family around all the time, to back me up. Sam nearly died, and I couldn't talk to Dad for weeks."

Ellie curled her arm around him, feeling his heart beating against the inside of her elbow.

"That was a lot of responsibility on you."

"Yeah, but that was only a part of it." He closed his eyes. "We were already kind of drifting apart, even then, I just didn't want to see the cracks. After that it all fell apart pretty fast."

The next year, Sam had taken off, and by the time he'd gotten over that, and thought that things had settled down, his brother already applied to college and been accepted. And he'd gone.

"I thought everything would stay the same."

She heard the wry self-deprecation in his voice and smiled slightly. Keeping the status quo was something he still tried to do.

"Where'd all this come from, Dean?" she asked.

"Was all this supposed to happen the way it did, Ellie?" He moved a little and she shifted away from him, settling herself on the pillow to look at his face.

"I mean, was that all predestined to work out that way? That Sam would leave like that, and all the things that followed it – there was no choice, no other way for it go?" He gestured vaguely at the room. "Is all this following some path that we can't know, can't see and it could all change?"

"Well, you've got three choices. You can believe that it was all fixed. You can believe that it's all random. Or you can figure that some of it is fixed and some of it is random, based on our own choices."

His brows drew together. "What do you believe?"

She turned her head, looking at the ceiling. "I'm definitely in the door number three camp. Some things, like the way your family found me, I think were fixed, meant to happen in that way, at that time. Other things, like choosing this case, are more random, they could go either way."

She turned back to him. "The Apocalypse, for example. Although getting everyone in place, at the right time, was clearly the work of destiny, or Fate, or God, Sam choosing to try and take Lucifer on wasn't. And what you did, in Stull's, that wasn't a part of any grand plan. Nothing could have made you keep trying to get through to Sam, with what Lucifer was doing – that was just you, your choice, your free will. Random."

"What about us?" He looked at her.

She closed her eyes, thinking about her decisions, his decisions. Some of it had been manoeuvred by destiny, and some of what had happened where their lives had intersected had been thwarted by destiny, or at least by the angels who could see the destinies, but a lot of had been their own choices.

"I think we've followed our hearts, as much as we've been allowed to," she said finally. "No argument that destiny wasn't involved, but only in the biggest things. We could have slept together and conceived John and chosen not to be together, not to stay together. You could have kept hunting with Sam."

He very nearly had, he remembered with a pang of discomfort. It had been a sudden decision to go and see her, one that had led to them sorting through what had happened. With Bobby's unwelcomed help, he amended.

"Is that what's happening here?"

"Destiny?" She rolled back onto her elbow, looking down at his face. "No, I don't think so. The family that disappeared, in '79. I think they're all still alive, still living in that house, just not in this universe."

He blinked. "What?"

"When I … went through that doorway, it was a lived-in house, clean, food in the cupboards, flowers on the table … I think there's a loop here, but I don't know why, and I don't know what caused it."

"So, could we be trapped in it too?"

She looked sharply at him. "Is that what you're worried about? That we're going to be stuck here?"

"Well," he said uncomfortably, "It wouldn't be the first time we've been dragged into something that something else is controlling."

"No," she acknowledged with a hint of a smile. "It wouldn't. But I don't think this is deliberate. I think this is a mistake, an accident."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because we can still move freely between the planes," she said. "If it were deliberate, I think we would have lost the car as soon as we got out of it."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked indignantly.

"No, this is supposed to make you feel better." She moved close to him, her fingertips brushing over his skin.

* * *

The library was open but empty when they found it the next morning. Ellie moved to the county reference room and Dean went hunting for the original newspapers.

In 1976, a development group had lodged an application to the county to build a huge new development in the town. Ellie looked at the proposed plans, which covered the cemetery for several housing tracts, and a part of the downtown area for a new business complex and further out, a light industry development. She frowned as a name leapt out at her from the list of directors. Rodney McAllister had been a director of the development.

The proposal had been opposed by some of the townspeople. Fisher Thompson, newly arrived from New York City, had been one of the names on the petition against it.

She leaned back in the chair, pen tapping furiously against the papers in front of her as she tried to imagine what had happened here in this place almost forty years ago. She looked up as Dean brought an armful of newspapers to the table, dropping them at the end.

"'76 was a busy year here," he said, dropping into the chair next to hers.

"I noticed that. There was some controversy over a proposed development in town," she said, looking past him to the pile. He handed her the topmost paper.

"More than a controversy, it got pretty physical."

She picked up the paper and looked at the headline, the small line appearing between her brows as she started to read the story.

Both McAllister and Thompson had, in fact, grown up here. That put an even worse wobble on the coincidences that were piling up, she thought. The two men had argued in the hearing at the hall over the proposed development, and that argument had escalated later that evening in Hal's, local bar and diner, leading to McAllister being taken to the ER in the next town over for a broken nose, four broken ribs and bruising. McAllister had denied that it was assault, calling it a difference of opinion and telling the cops to leave it alone.

She put the paper down and looked at Dean, one eyebrow raised. "Guess they didn't get on as kids either."

The corner of his mouth lifted as he handed her the next one. One week later, Thompson had been found in his home, torn into little pieces, his wife and daughters fled. The accompanying picture had been one of those stiff, professional ones, showing Thompson standing with his arm around his wife, their two girls standing in front of them, all four dressed up nicely. Alice Thompson was a pleasant looking woman with pretty blonde hair, her slim figure complimented by the tailored pale suit she wore. She was wearing a fine gold chain with a tear-drop pendant and the girls had been wearing matching pearl necklaces and small pearl studs in their ears. They looked like an ordinary, nice family, no different from any one of a million others. McAllister had a solid alibi for the time. He'd been entertaining half of the town's bigwigs in his dining room that night. The police were baffled. The FBI was baffled.

But the feeling raised in the town had snuffed the development proposal cold. No one was interested in it after the murder. McAllister and his company had left town, and things settled down again, until he'd returned three years later when probate had finally been cleared for the Thompson family and had bought the property.

"It gets better a little further back." He passed her another paper and she looked at the date. 1966. Same house. This was the article that the file held, the murder of the family, supposed by a vagrant. She skimmed down the article, noticing as Dean had, the fine print notice at the very bottom that it was continued on page 33. Frowning, she turned to the middle of the paper. The rest of the story was just a short half-column, tucked between bake sale, used car and secretarial services advertisements, and a story about a missing dog. Dwight had missed the continuation, when he'd copied the story for the file.

The family that had been murdered were the Haileys. Mr Hailey was the sexton for the cemetery. The oldest child was Cole, a sixteen year old with a bright future. He'd won a football scholarship. Ellie looked up at Dean.

"Two more for you." He passed her a school yearbook, 1966, and another paper, also 1966 for March of that year. "Look at the football team."

Ellie flipped through the yearbook, and found the photographs of the football team, the names listed underneath. Hailey had been the quarterback. McAllister had played centre and Thompson was the fullback. In the photograph, the three young men stood together, arms slung around each other's shoulders, grinning into the camera. She stared at the photo for a minute, then put the yearbook down and picked up the paper.

In March 1966, fifty-six year old Harriet Winslow went missing. The search had lasted three weeks, then the police had closed the file, citing no further leads. Harriet had been an embarrassment in life to the town, and apparently someone had advised that she shouldn't continue to be an embarrassment in death. Her body was never found. The story was brief, even for a case with no leads. Ellie looked up at Dean.

"I had to go a little further back to get the dirt on Harriet." He passed her another paper. "Page 6."

Ellie read it fast. The story, again, was brief and vague. The lady in question had been arrested for soliciting at the local bar. The grainy picture above the story showed a voluptuous woman wearing a low cut dress, long tousled-looking hair piled on top of her head, and a lot of makeup giving her features a striking, gypsyish look, accentuated by the necklace with a tear-drop pendant around her neck, and the long earrings dangling from her ears. Nothing else was mentioned. She stared at the picture for a long moment, something bothering her about it, then put the paper down when it wouldn't come.

"Alright. You have my attention." She looked up at him.

"Apparently, Harriet was soliciting the high school kids as well as older clientele." He took the paper from her and opened it again near the back. A small, discreet advertisement advised potential clients of her business there. "She might have hooked up with those three, sometime around graduation. Might have managed to get something compromising on the quarterback who'd gotten a scholarship. They might have decided to do something about her."

Ellie's mouth twisted. "That's pretty thin."

"Anorexic," he agreed readily. "But what else? We got three kids who all knew each other and were pretty tight in school. Then one of them is murdered and the other two stop talking to each other. They take off for their respective lives, and then ten years later they're back, on opposite sides of a town-wide dispute, and the ones who live in the house are murdered. The other one takes off and when he comes back to town, his house and family, hell, the whole town get shifted into the Twilight Zone."

She nodded. It did fit together, mostly. The whole time shift didn't, but perhaps that was the result of something that had happened over the course of the events.

"Ellie, we need to find Harriet's body. If she's ground zero, maybe everything else will snap back."

"Yeah." It was possible, she thought. She didn't know how it could've happened, but it was certainly possible. She tapped the papers. "Pretty sure I know where it is."

"You do?"

"The quarterback's dad was the sexton at the cemetery. His son had just won a scholarship, so maybe he gave the boys a hand to bury the body." She looked over the table, now covered in papers and notes and files. "Let's get copies of all of this stuff."

He nodded, gathering up the papers again as she pulled out the map of the town. Finister's Funeral Home was the only one in town. They should have the grave allocations for the cemetery.

* * *

It was early afternoon when they walked back up to the cemetery, the air crisp and cool, the cloudless sky a deep azure, vivid against the fall colours of the trees. Salt, butane, shotguns, shovels and matches filled the bags they carried, Dean feeling slightly disoriented by the thought of digging up a grave in the bright sunlight.

"Somewhere on the house side?" He dropped his bag and looked at Ellie, who was studying the allocation sheet from the funeral home.

"Yeah, and out of the way, to one side." She looked along the edges of the wide field, dumping her bag next to his and starting to walk between the gravestones to the northern side of the field. Dean followed her, looking at the rough grass that spread between the graves and rows. Field had to be a couple of acres, he thought, and the existing plots took up barely a quarter of the ground. Finding this grave wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.

"Look at that." Ellie's voice was soft. He followed her gaze and blinked. At the edge of the field, close by a towering wild rose, he could see a square of grass clearly differentiated from the surrounding vegetation in colour and texture.

"They didn't do that deliberately?" he asked her. She shook her head.

"No. The rest of the soil here must be pretty poor, but where the body is, there a lot more nutrients and the soil's been loosened. Very handy thing." She walked up to the edge of the grave, ducking as the errant breeze brought a long runner from the rose swaying close to her.

"We'll start with this, and hope the townsfolk haven't been burying other murder victims up here."

They retrieved their bags and started to dig. The turf was tough to cut through, but once it had been lifted, the soil was soft and came out easily. Three feet down, Ellie climbed out of the grave and swapped her shovel for a shotgun, watching and waiting for any sign that the spirit of the woman they were digging up was going to take it personally.

Dean felt the resistance in the earth before he heard the shovel's thunk against the rotten lid of the box. He scraped the lid with the edge of the blade, and tossed it out of the hole, using his hands to sweep the final piles of dirt free. Most of the cheap pine box had rotted away, leaving a fine deep surround of humus over the bones that were arranged within. He looked at the skeleton carefully, noting the size of the skull, of the pelvis and hands and feet. Definitely a woman's body, he thought.

Ellie passed him the opened bag of salt and he spread it over the bones, shaking the last of it over the skull. He turned to the edge of the grave and took her hand, bracing his foot against the side of the hole and jumping, as she pulled against his weight. He smiled inwardly, her strength never failed to surprise him, packed into a slender body half his size and weight.

The breeze had picked up, bringing a line of cloud from the east along the horizon. He looked around the edge of the field, seeing the branches of the trees tossing and bending, looking for any skirls or twists that seemed to be going against the direction of the wind he could feel on the side of his face. It'd had been awhile since he'd just salted and burned the remains of a vengeful spirit, but he had plenty of memories of occasions where the damned things had been pissed at him for doing it. He squeezed the bottle over the grave, and crouched by the edge, shielding the match from the wind and dropping it in.

The lighter fluid caught with a solid whoomf and burned fiercely in the deep shelter of the hole, the bones charring under the flames, the smell rising out and dissipating. Ellie was watching the house, the small crease back between her brows. He looked around, wondering if they'd be able to feel the town returning to the single plane of the present. Nothing looked or felt any different.

"Did it work?" he asked, finally.

"I don't think so." She looked down into the grave at the smouldering ashes that were all that remained of the body. "I mean, I think that the haunting part of it is probably over, but it doesn't seem to have affected the rest." She held out her watch to him. The hands were still stopped on the time they'd entered the town, yesterday morning. "Pretty sure we're still without phone coverage too."

"Crap." He looked down at the grave. "What now?"

"I don't know." She bent and picked up the shovel, sliding it back between the handles of the bag.

* * *

Hal's Bar & Diner was quieter when they arrived, the jukebox a little louder, Gerry Rafferty's _Baker Street_ filling the room with guitar and sax.

"Whatever is doing this, it's in the house," Ellie said, dipping her fry into a puddle of ketchup and eating it slowly. Dean nodded, looking around the room. The same people, some of them anyway, were there, at the same tables they'd been last night. It looked like a loop.

"You don't think …" Ellie looked up at him suddenly, her nose wrinkling at her thought.

"What?"

"That maybe, one of those guys took a … a souvenir?"

Dean looked at his burger and put it back on the plate. He thought about the skeleton he'd uncovered. "Body was intact."

"They could have taken hair, or something she was wearing, even jewellery." She looked down at her food, feeling her appetite disappearing.

"Jewellery," Dean said slowly, his eyes losing their focus. Ellie watched him, and felt the same connection crackling in her mind, in the air between them. Her eyes widened.

"Alice Thompson was wearing –"

"The hooker's necklace."

"Where are the photographs?"

"Uh, in the room, with the file." He picked up his burger and took a big bite.

"You thinking –"

He nodded, chewing frantically. "Cursed object."

"Yeah." Ellie pushed her plate aside and finished her beer, pulling a couple of bills from her wallet and putting them on the table. Dean took another bite and put the burger down, getting up as she did.

Under the flat overhead light, the photographs showed the necklace clearly. Ellie put down the magnifying glass and leaned back in the chair.

"It's the same one."

Dean turned away from the table, going to the fridge for a beer. "That woman took off with her kids, how're we gonna find it now?"

Ellie straightened up, leaning forward on the table. "She can't have. The necklace has to be what's holding everything open, the gates or doorways or wormholes or whatever they really are." She looked down at the photograph. "It has to be there."

"Did the feds confirm that she'd left the state?" Dean sat down and pulled out the reports again.

"No. The reporters were the only ones who said that she couldn't be found."

"Maybe she didn't leave."

They looked at each other.

"I'll get another canister of salt."

"There should be more butane in the trunk."

* * *

The walk back up to the house was harder after dark. The wind, forerunner of the storm that had been slowly approaching throughout the evening, was strong enough to bend the boughs of even the big trees, and fallen and falling leaves rose and fell around them as they crossed the cemetery, the almost-full moon's light flickering intermittently over them as cloud built up overhead.

They'd quartered the cemetery first, examining the long sides of the fields under the moaning, tossing trees. Even under the flashlight it was hard to see the differences in colour that might have marked an unofficial grave. And neither thought that Alice Thompson and her daughters were buried in the cemetery. The house was the centre.

"Why do you think the necklace is still on the body?" Dean raised his voice as they crossed the last stretch of open ground to the building.

"I think she liked it." Ellie threw her hand over her face as a whirlwind of flying leaves swept around her, spitting out the fragments as it passed. "It didn't suit the outfit she was wearing in that photo at all, but she still wore it."

Fashion clues, Dean thought in bemusement. He wouldn't have known – or cared – if a piece of jewellery fit or not. He wondered, with a half-repressed snicker in his throat, if Sam would've.

Inside the house, it was quiet and still and they stopped in the hall, tucking flashlights, salt canisters, butane bottles, matches and extra shells into the deep, wide pockets of their jackets, running lines of salt across the thresholds and window sills, around the vents and fireplaces. If it was just a cursed object, that was fine, they could destroy it and leave, but if it was something else, Dean thought worriedly, they wanted to trap the thing in there with them. He still wasn't sure that was such a great idea.

"Which way?" Dean looked up the stairs.

Ellie nodded. "We'll try there first. Together, one of those middle steps was a doorway from the alternative time line."

As he took the first step in unison with Ellie, he felt the prickling sensation on the back of his neck, and stopped, turning to look around. The EMF was on, in the inside pocket of his jacket, murmuring and burbling to itself, but not really showing anything.

"What is it?" she said softly, stopping when he had.

"Bad feeling." He shook his head. The house was still silent, still quiet. He hadn't seen anything. He lifted his foot and they took the next step, and the one after that together.

Ellie tightened her grip on the shotgun. She respected Dean's feelings, they'd often given them just enough advance warning to get out of the way of things that had been trying to kill them. She looked down as they reached the middle of the staircase, but they passed over the step she'd appeared on without anything happening, and at the top of the landing, turned left to follow the hallway to the bedrooms.

All four bedrooms were still furnished, dust laying over the beds and shelves and dressers without any sign of disturbance. The EMF remained mulishly silent as they checked the two bathrooms, and approached the narrow door that led up to the attic.

Ellie turned the doorknob and pulled the outward opening door wide. A dark set of steps led up and they could hear the moaning and wailing of the wind clearly now. Dean took point, and was halfway up the stairs when the EMF squawked, throwing himself against the wall, swallowing his heart from where it had lodged in this throat, hearing Ellie's furiously muttered swearing behind him. He pulled it out and looked at the gauge, which was swinging wildly across the meter.

"Ellie, get up here." He squeezed back against the wall, making her room for her to come up beside him.

"Another doorway?"

"Yeah, maybe." They took the last few steps together and came up into the attic, a wide, open space, spanning the roof of the building, unlined and filled with boxes, old pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac. The air smelled musty and very faintly of dried flowers, despite the draughts Ellie could feel trickling past her as the wind outside sought the cracks in the roof.

Her attention was snagged by a neat pile of luggage, sitting to one side of the space, several steamer trunks and huge suitcases, piled one on top of the other. She pointed her flashlight at the pile. Every piece had been arranged precisely perpendicular to the others.

"Seem a bit obsessive-compulsive to you?"

Dean looked at the pile and nodded, heading for it. The top suitcases were empty, and he pulled them down, tossing them to one side as he reached for the first small trunk. That wasn't empty. He gave Ellie the shotgun and flashlight and pulled the trunk from the top, easing it down to the floor. The metal hasp still held a padlock and he pulled out his knife, setting the blade beneath the hasp's fastening to the trunk and popping the entire lock off. The flashlight illuminated the small skeleton inside the trunk clearly when he lifted the lid.

"Sonofabitch."

He pushed the trunk to one side, and reached for the one that had been under it. Also not empty, he realised with a sinking heart as he dragged the weight over. Ellie poured salt over the bones in the first trunk as he broke the lock of the second and they saw another child's skeleton lying in the bottom. The sharp smell of butane filled the air and Ellie dropped matches in both trunks as Dean struggled with the padlock on the largest trunk.

The firelight and flashlight revealed the woman who'd been crammed into the trunk, pretty blonde hair still adhering to the skull. They gleamed on the fine gold necklace and disappeared into the faceted sides of the dark purple jewel set into the centre of the tear-drop pendant, as if the jewel was swallowing the light. Dean reached into the trunk and undid the small clasp, drawing the necklace free as Ellie poured salt over the bones.

The EMF shrieked and the air around them dropped in temperature by fifteen degrees.

Dean dropped the chain onto the floor as Ellie spun around, both barrels of his sawn-off fired at the spectre that had been behind them, splintering it momentarily, their ears ringing with the gun's noise in the closeness of the attic.

"What the fuck?"

"God, I am so stupid!" Ellie reloaded and passed him the shotgun, scooping up the necklace and shoving it into her pocket as she dumped the salt over the bones in the trunk.

"What?" Dean squirted butane into the trunk without looking, his gaze moving fast around the room behind them.

"The necklace was what she was after, as much as the men. She would've left the rest of the family alone if Alice hadn't kept the necklace on. She couldn't get up here before we burned her remains."

"Oh." He straightened up and glanced over his shoulder at her, as she lit the match and dropped it into the trunk. "What now?"

"She's going to keep coming for us." Ellie looked around the darkness surrounding them.

"You think we can destroy that necklace?" He looked at the stairs leading down from the attic. "Maybe in one of the fireplaces?"

"I don't think fire's going to do it, Dean." She thought of the basement, the edge of the wooden work bench she'd glimpsed down there, before she'd been transported to the McAllister's alternative universe. "There's a vice in the basement."

"Okay." He moved slowly toward the stairs, feeling her behind him.

Harriet Winslow appeared to his left, and he pulled the trigger without hesitation, working the slide one-handed with the weight of the gun, and bringing the barrel up again as she reappeared to the right.

Ellie reached the stairs and stopped at the corner of the balustrade, the barrel of the sawn-off tracking the area as Dean moved past her. She went down the stairs half-sideways, keeping Dean in her peripheral as she watched behind them.

They ran down the hall, taking the stairs down to the ground floor in threes and fours, and slowed as they entered the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Ellie pulled the trigger as Harriet appeared behind her, her hand diving into her pocket for shells when she heard the boom of the pump and the ratcheting noise as the slide worked loading the next shell. She caught the flicker of movement again and fired, turning as she loaded the new shell.

"Just blow the door open, we have to get down there now."

Dean nodded, sending two shells into the ghost in quick succession as it shifted furiously around the kitchen. He fired at the basement door's handle, and the door swung open, Ellie swinging around him to cover him as he reloaded at the top step. He took a step down, bracing himself to be sent elsewhere and opened an eye when it didn't happen. The flashlight, held along the gun's barrel showed him the bench, the vice gleaming blackly at its end, and he sped up, stride lengthening as he took the stairs in chunks. Behind him, Ellie fired again, then leapt down the first few steps, one hand breaking the gun, the other scrabbling in her pocket for two more shells.

Dean was already at the vice when she felt the air turn frigid around her, and the shove from behind that sent her flying off the stairs and onto the ground. She twisted in the air, landing on her shoulder and rolling onto her back, firing as the spectre swept toward her. Struggling to get to her feet, she reloaded again, backing toward Dean, the barrel swinging from side to side. She felt the woman's hands at the same time as the temperature dropped, behind and to one side of her, lifting her off the ground.

At the vice, Dean scrabbled among the oddment of tools on the bench, his hand closing around the ten pound sledge with a feeling of relief. He caught the movement behind him from the corner of his eye, unable to turn and look as he positioned the pendant on the vice's flat surface. A crashing thunk sounded behind him at the same time as he swung the sledge down, the jewel shattering into a thousand slivers of stone as it was crushed between the hammer and the vice. He turned, seeing Ellie fall from the height of the ceiling, the shotgun lying on the ground under her, and heard the ghost's disappearing shriek.

The house flexed sickeningly around him, shifting incrementally under his feet, the timbers and glass and plaster appearing to bow outward and then inward before settling back into their accepted shape. He glanced at his watch and saw the second hand resume its journey around the face as he turned to his wife.

Blood dripped onto his hand when he lifted her head, and he turned her face gently to see a long gash disappearing into her hair. Her arm was hanging at a peculiar angle and his breath whistled out as he realised that it was dislocated, looking up at the thick beam above them. Harriet must have lifted her straight up, he thought, and she'd taken the impact on the back of her shoulders, ducking her head. He was glad she was unconscious as he rotated the arm inwards, then up and out, feeling the ball of the joint sliding along the edge of the socket, and pressing hard as it came free, the ball settling back into the joint under the pressure of his hand. He looked around the room curiously. The floor had changed to concrete under his feet, the work bench and tools still there, but now the space was lined at the other end, painted and carpeted. Three boys, in their mid-teens stared at him from the depths of their bean bags, the smell of pot redolent in the enclosed space.

He shook his head, half-smiling at them as he picked Ellie up, and turned for the stairs.

* * *

Ellie looked around as they pulled out of the motel's driveway. The town was back, but the people all looked more than a bit shell-shocked. They'd had breakfast at Hal's, after Dean had patched her up, and everyone in there had been silent, staring at their food, or each other, as the radio behind the counter had played music and read the news. It would be an interesting assimilation for them, into the twenty first century.

"How's the head?" Dean glanced at her.

"It hurts." She smiled at him, settling against the corner of the door and the back of the seat. "Painkillers haven't kicked in yet. It'll be alright."

He nodded, watching the road in front of them. "Ellie, did you get the feeling that we might have been a bit manipulated back there?"

"Oh yeah." She looked through the windshield. "And not just a bit."

"Who do you think was pulling the strings?"

"I don't know." She frowned. "I called Dwight, asked him where that case came from. Anonymous tip, he said. It turned up, full case details, in our post office box, three weeks ago."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

* * *

Castiel stood at the edge of the town, staring at the black car as it pulled away.

"Atropos."

"Castiel."

"You were forbidden to have anything to do with the Winchesters."

The slender woman turned to him, pushing her glasses back up her nose with one hand, as the other clutched a large leather-bound book to her chest. "That necklace was holding open a dozen wormholes, Castiel. I couldn't do anything about it, and the people in there were trapped for almost forty years." She glanced at the distant car. "Your pets are hunters, they're experienced in this kind of thing. They could get in and destroy the necklace and release everyone without destiny being involved."

"They could have been killed."

"I suppose so. But they've always been in that position, Cas. And it was their own free choice to take the case on." She shrugged. "If they're going to be around, they may as well be useful."

She vanished.

Castiel sighed deeply, then the clearing filled for a moment with the sound of beating wings as he disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2 The Hollow Hills

**Chapter 2 The Hollow Hills**

* * *

The faint pearlescent light barely outlined the furniture in the room, an edge here, a soft fold there, the sweeping curve of her lips as he looked down at her. Dean felt a deep shiver pass through his body as she lifted her face to him, skin sliding over his with a whisper like silk, her half-closed eyes dark with desire.

His hand followed the curves and hollows of her body, lingering in some places, feathering over others. She arched up, and his eyelids fluttered shut at the surge of heat that filled him, leaving a deep ache in its wake, a breathless moan in his throat. He lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers, the kiss intensifying abruptly as her fingers slipped over him and he felt himself start to shake –

"Dad! Dad!" The burst open and John shot across the room, leaping onto the bed and cannoning into his father's back. "Pancakes, you promised, pancakes for breakfast! Today!"

"'cakes! 'cakes!" Rosie stood by the edge of the bed, arms raised and John turned, gripping her wrists and pulling her up, dragging her over the edge onto the bed.

His heart was pounding, the ache had compounded, and he looked down into his wife's eyes, seeing the same trace of regret, somewhat callously overlaid by laughter, in them.

"You promised pancakes for breakfast?" Ellie's lips twisted to one side.

"I might've." He shook his head. "It all happened fast."

"Wow, and you didn't see this coming?" She was shaking with repressed laughter now, the bed shaking as well as John and Rosie bounced up and down behind them.

"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder. "No jumping on the bed!"

"Oh good, you're up."

Dean and Ellie both looked toward the door as Sam walked in, a thick file in one hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the file.

"Twist got a call from his cousin in Kentucky. Louise says there's something happening in the cave systems around their area, people going missing, strange lights, strange noises – "

"Do I look like Danny Glover?" Dean snapped at his brother. "Do I?"

Sam looked at him, brow wrinkling. "Uh, no, not particularly."

"Then why are you Lethal Weapon-ing my bedroom?" He sat up, glaring around. "Everyone out."

"But Dad! Pancakes! You promised!" John stopped mid-bounce to stare at his father.

"'cakes! 'cakes! 'cakes!" Rosie shrieked, and kept bouncing.

Sam looked at Dean and hurriedly closed the file, catching the waving hands of his niece and nephew. "Uh, come on you guys, we'll go downstairs and start making the pancakes, your dad can catch up in a bit."

"You promised!" John stared rebelliously at Dean, lower lip stuck out.

"I'll be down in a minute. Go with Uncle Sammy, and get the stuff ready." Dean exhaled as John slithered off the bed and followed his uncle and sister out of the room.

Ellie was sitting up, legs drawn up under her chin. "There was something you were going to do, I think it was last month … what was it? Something to do with the door, I think."

He gave her a sour look. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll get 'em on today."

"After the pancakes." She smiled at him. "And whatever it is Sam was talking about."

"No. The lock takes priority." He shook his head, trying to find a comfortable position to sit. "I don't suppose there's enough time to …?"

"Not unless you want a repeat performance." She looked at his expression sympathetically. "And that'll make it worse."

He nodded, getting up gingerly. "Yeah. Locks today, you'll see."

* * *

Dean exhaled softly as he looked around the kitchen, half of it a debris plain of pans and plates, spilled maple syrup and strawberry jam. He sat down at the non-sticky end of the table, opposite Sam, his hand curled around a cup of coffee. Ellie had taken John and Rosie down to visit Talya, and they'd have a couple of hours of quiet until they got back.

"Alright, what's the story?"

Sam pulled out a map of Kentucky, red circles marking various areas surrounding the small town of Fisher Ridge. "These are the locations Twist gave me. Bodies found, noises heard, visions. They all lie in the area between the Mammoth cave system and the Flint Ridge system."

Dean looked at the map, noting the distances. "Something living in the caves?"

"That was my first guess, but I don't think this is a monster." He pulled a sheaf of police reports from the file, passing them over the table. Dean pushed his coffee aside and looked at the first one. Sam watched his brother's brow rise as he got the bottom and started skimming through the rest.

"Are these right? Deputy hasn't been chugging the local moonshine?" Dean looked at him.

Sam shrugged. "Coroner's reports agree with them. They got in a team from Quantico after the last body was found, in case they were dealing with a whacko serial, but after they got all possible screens back, they said it was impossible for a person to do … what had been done to those people."

"Okay, so…" Dean looked over the reports. Two bodies had found, both without a single internal organ and no incisions to indicate how they'd been removed. Three more people were missing. He frowned as he flipped slowly through the photographs and diagrams of the crime scenes. "These are pretty big caves – any chance that the missing people just got lost?"

Sam gave him a dry look. "Yeah, but the police have been searching for weeks, and the cave systems are pretty well mapped out."

"Huh." He looked up at Sam. "These, uh, dates … they're all –"

"Yeah." Sam ran his hand through his hair. "All major witch Sabbath dates. Beltane in May was when the first couple went missing. Then Litha, for midsummer's eve, Lammas was August, Mabon in September and the last one was Samhain, October 31."

"When's the next big day?"

"Yule."

"They have a Sabbath at Christmas?"

"Not Christmas, midwinter's eve, the winter solstice. December 22nd or 23rd."

"These are sacrifices then?" Dean frowned down at the police photographs of the bodies.

"I don't think so." Sam looked at them too. "They don't match any ritual sacrifice that I can find."

"You know, I just got done with witches, Sam," Dean said, looking at him as he picked up his cup.

"Yeah, well, you can't pick and choose which monsters are going to be coming out of the woodwork at any given time."

Dean sighed and finished the coffee. "What'd Louise say about it?"

"Disappearances started in May. The cops are treating it very hush-hush, they think they've got a serial hiding out in the caves somewhere. They've done multiple searches and come up with bupkis so far, and people are starting to get worried." He got up and followed his brother to the coffee pot, refilling his cup.

"She said that twice now, she's heard a groaning noise from the caves. Her place is two or three miles from the nearest entrance, off the Flint Ridge caves. She said it didn't sound like anything she'd ever heard, and it had spooked her animals."

"Anything else?"

"People who live around there, have been reporting seeing things, like, uh, visions."

"What kind of visions?"

"Something coming out of the caves, lights around it, she said." He gestured at the file. "Louise said she'd seen it too."

Leaning back against the counter, Dean rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "Okay, I got nothing."

"Me either." Sam shrugged. "We could be in Kentucky in a couple of days."

"We?"

* * *

Ellie sat on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under her as she leaned forward and read through the file. Slouched into the armchair across from her, Dean watched her read, listening to the approaching mutter of thunder of the storm that had been building all day, and brooding.

He and Sam hadn't really pulled a job together since they'd stolen the Semtex from the naval base in California. He didn't want to hunt with his brother. Well, that wasn't entirely true, there was nothing wrong hunting with Sam, it was just that it didn't come with any of the perks of hunting with his wife.

A penetrating low rumble caught her attention, the lights flickering as the sky outside lit up, and she stopped reading, lifting her head to listen.

"They'll be fine. They're sound asleep," he said, listening himself. A big storm had brushed by them at the end of summer, and since then both John and Rosie developed a fear of thunder. The house remained silent.

She looked at him, the corner of her mouth tucking in as she saw his expression. "Are you sulking?"

"No." He looked away. "Me and Sam, we haven't done this for awhile, together. We could make mistakes."

"Like a riding a bicycle." She smiled. "You'll figure it out. Anyway, Trish is due in two weeks, and she needs some help right now, so you're stuck with it."

"Looking after Trish is Sam's job," he said stubbornly. "Your job is looking after me."

Ellie laughed. "I didn't see that on the job description. John has his orientation at the end of the week, and I have to be here for that anyway. Unless," she said thoughtfully, "you'd like to stay and give Trish her iron shots, take John to kindergarten and look after the kids, and I'll go hunting with Sam?"

"Hilarious." He sighed, giving up. "Anything in that file make a lick of sense to you?"

She looked down at the papers strewn over the table. "No, nothing leapt out. I don't know that the Sabbath dates are all that significant."

"They're the only things that are significant!" His brows shot up.

She shook her head. "Those dates are all seasonal … I just mean that whatever is in the caves might be working on nature's calendar, not necessarily a witch's."

"Seasonal?"

"Beltane is the Spring Equinox; Litha is the Summer solstice, the longest day of the year." She picked up the last three reports. "Lammas used to celebrate the first fruits of the harvest, midway between the Summer solstice and the Autumn Equinox. Mabon is the Autumn Equinox, when most of the harvest is in. Samhain marked the finish of the year's labours. In the northern hemisphere, these dates revolve around seasonal events. People just added their own festivals to them because they were natural milestones in the year."

"So … you think it might be a monster?" He leaned forward, setting his beer on the table and looking at her.

"I don't know." She shuffled the papers together neatly, returning them to the file. "I just wouldn't rule it out based on the dates."

"You do realise that you've trashed our one lead." He stood up with her as she picked up the file.

"Sorry."

"You think 'sorry' is going to cut it?"

Ellie paused and turned around. "Now, did you get the lock on the door today?"

His eyes widened slightly then his face screwed up in frustration, and she shook her head.

"Doesn't matter," he said airily, following her out of the room. "Everyone's asleep, we've got all night."

Ellie put the file in the gear bag by the hall table, smiling. There was a clap of thunder outside and the house shook, and they both turned to look up the stairs as a plaintive wail started. Ellie glanced at Dean, looking away as her lips pressed tight against the ill-timed laugh that rose. Disbelief and disappointment filled his face.

He caught her expression and sighed. "I'll get him."

* * *

By morning the storm had passed over them, leaving the air clean and fresh, and the ground saturated and bejewelled in the pale early light. Dean dressed silently in the dim light that spilled from the hallway through the partially open door. He looked at the three sleeping shapes in the bed for a long moment before turning away, going out and closing the door behind him.

Sam looked at his brother as he got into the car, taking in the shadows under and around his eyes.

"What happened to you?"

"Thunderstorm last night, woke the kids." He started the engine and rubbed a hand over his face. "Didn't get much sleep after that."

"You want me to drive?"

"In a couple of hours," he said shortly. It wasn't the lack of sleep he was missing, he thought aggrievedly, thinking of the days he'd be counting until they were done.

"Twist headed out an hour ago, said he'd meet us there." Sam tried to remember where his legs used to go with some amount of comfort.

"Three of us?" Dean pulled around and pointed the car down the narrow road.

"Just backup. He had to go out for Colin's funeral anyway."

"Huh." Dean thought of the tall, lanky hunter regretfully. Louise's husband had been a good man, and a good hunter. Another one to fall. "Louise going to be okay?"

"Probably not, but she's taken care of," Sam said, twisting himself into a new position.

That'd been Ellie's idea, when they'd sold short on Dick Roman Enterprises, Dean remembered. The Hunter's Death and Injury Fund. The pensions weren't huge, but they covered the expenses and meant that families weren't left with financial distress as well as emotional.

"Ellie said that the dates might not mean witch involvement," he remarked to his brother, glancing sideways at Sam's fresh contortion.

"Yeah, I was thinking about that last night," Sam gave up, leaning back against the seat and crossing his ankles awkwardly. "We'll have to wait and see, I guess."

* * *

It was surprising how quickly they fell back into the way it used to be, he thought as they crossed out of Idaho, following the 84 south toward Salt Lake City. Sam had rolled his eyes as Zeppelin filled the car. They'd had the same argument about where to eat when they stopped for gas, almost word-for-word, as he remembered. The conversations were different, he allowed, no more talk of the end of the world or what the angels were doing, or if they were driving into a trap. That was a relief.

Beside him, Sam shifted and cleared his throat slightly.

"You know, the way we're living now … do you think if Mom hadn't felt so strongly against hunting, we might have grown up like this?"

Dean glanced at him. "I was thinking that a while ago."

"When you went back, did she say why she hated the life so much?"

"Not specifically." He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Mary, in 1973. "She, uh, said she wanted out, and she wanted a family and she wanted to be safe."

"Knowing what she knew? What was out there whether she looked at it or not?" Sam's brow wrinkled up.

Dean looked at him. "Yeah, well … I thought the same thing."

"Yeah, you did." Sam leaned back, looking at him sideways. "And you said it felt like you'd lost your purpose."

"I did." He looked at the road. "I guess it wasn't the same for Mom."

* * *

Sam pulled into the motel parking lot in Laramie at eleven. He picked up the keys and parked the car in front of the room, waking Dean as he got out, walking to the back of the car to open the trunk.

Dean rubbed his eyes, looking at the damp black asphalt parking lot, the identically coloured row of doors, the flickering fluorescent light that lit the concrete sidewalk that ran between the two. He got out of the car as the trunk slammed shut, hooking his duffle bag from the back seat, and followed his brother into the double room, yawning, hungry and disoriented.

"You see anywhere open that was still serving food, Sam?" He dumped his bag on the floor by the bed next to the bathroom automatically, noticing that Sam had taken the bed closest to the room door out of habit as well.

"There's a bar down the street."

"I'm starving." He looked around the dingy interior. "Man, this is depressingly familiar."

Sam looked around, brows raised as he set his laptop on the small table. "Yeah, I guess it is."

* * *

Dean picked up his beer, washing the last of the burger down. "How come you're doing this?"

Sam looked at him, then around the quiet bar. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Trish is due in a couple of weeks, and you've never been happy doing this – you really could just quit and turn your back on it, get a job, be really normal, so why?" The question had been sitting in the back of his mind for months now.

Sam looked down at the remains of the salad on his plate for a moment. "I guess I could. It's not the hunting itself." He looked up at his brother. "Trish asked me if I wanted to, you know, retire, go do something normal, before we moved back to Oregon."

"What stopped you?" Dean leaned on the small table.

"Something Trish told me. She said she'd heard Ellie talk about it, sometime." He ran his hand through his hair. "That the people who are capable of doing the job, have a responsibility to see that it gets done."

Dean nodded. It was the cornerstone of his wife's commitment to the life.

"There can't more than a few hundred hunters in the world, maybe a couple of thousand, but probably not." Sam continued, picking up his beer. "And the attrition rate is pretty high. We – you and me – we were trained for this since we were kids. That makes us rare even in such a small group. Most hunters learn on the job, pushed into the life by whatever happened to them." He shrugged, and drank.

"I just figured that having that ability, having those skills … I also have a responsibility to do the job the best I can."

"No one would blame you or think less of you for wanting to get out, you know, Sam. You really paid your dues."

"I know." He shook his head. "It's not that."

He looked around the bar. "I looked up Sarah a year ago. I don't really know why, but I just felt like I wanted to see if she was okay."

Dean frowned, hunting through his memories for the name. "The chick from the auction house? In New York?"

"Sarah Blake, yeah." Sam nodded. "She was killed in a car accident, two years after we'd been there."

Dean leaned back. "I'm sorry."

Sam looked at him, a half-smile twisting up his mouth. "It was a long time ago. But it wasn't ghosts or monsters that killed her, Dean. Just a drunken driver on a Saturday night." He shrugged. "It kind of hit me that I could live my life in a normal way, and still lose the people I love, or get wiped out myself, and I might not have anything to show for it at the end anyway."

He leaned forward. "I'm not like you and Mom. I can't pretend that what's out there in the dark doesn't exist. I can't even pretend that living a normal life would be safer than what we're doing. It wasn't for you."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I kind of went through a lot of stuff to do with Mom. I wish she'd told Dad about hunting, about the demon and the deal. Maybe it wouldn't've changed anything, but I wondered if they could've handled it better, if they'd been together on it."

Sam blinked in astonishment. He'd never heard his brother admit that their mother had been anything other than perfect. Dean looked at his face and smiled wryly.

"I know." He finished his beer. "No one's perfect. We're all just doing the best we can."

Sam nodded slowly. "We're good at this, Dean. And for the first time, we've got back up, we've got a home, we've got people we love and trust who're also good at this. We're not on our own anymore. It feels about as safe as it can get."

"Yeah." He looked around, stretching a little. "Let's grab some shut-eye. Still another twelve hundred miles to go."

* * *

Driving up the steep and winding gravel road, the headlights picking out odd detail of twisted trees and slumped boulders as they bumped over the ruts and holes, the storm's runoff sluicing down the slope, Dean thought his brother's suggestion of stopping for the night in Evansville and doing the last hundred miles in the morning might have been a good one.

The wipers were barely keeping up with the rain, and he had no idea if he was even on the right road, the last house had been two miles back.

In the passenger seat, Sam sat braced between the seat, the door and the firewall, mouth clamped shut as they made each hairpin turn, sending a shower of gravel off the edge of the road, the engine revs rising as his brother was forced to change between first and second to keep their momentum.

"Where is this place?" Dean leaned forward, peering through the silver sheet of water over the windshield.

"Five miles from the turn." Sam looked at the trip counter on the dash. "Another quarter mile."

The road twisted again, and Dean tapped the brakes as the headlights lit up the bare rock in front of them, water cascading over it from the runoff higher up the ridge.

"Come on," he muttered, going back to first and easing the car over the smooth rock, praying the tyres would cling to the slick surface. The Impala's weight and torque dragged them slowly over the humps, water spraying to both sides, then the nose dropped and they could see the road winding downwards again.

As the car drove down into the valley, trees closed up on both sides again, pine and cedar giving way to maple, hickory and oak, the rain no longer blowing sideways into them in the shelter of the forest.

"There." Sam pointed through the windshield as they slid a little on the muddy edge of the road, at a light that appeared intermittently through the trees.

"About time," Dean growled. Now that they were off the rocky slopes of the ridge, the road was turning into a quagmire of thick mud, and the car slid a little each way with every turn of the wheel.

He drove slowly through the gateposts that marked the property's boundary and pulled in under the shelter of an open-sided shed, built onto the side of the barn. From the car, they saw the front door of the house open, the warm, yellow inside spilling out onto the porch.

"Come on in, 'fore you boys drown out there." Twist's voice floated over to them, barely audible over the staccato thunder of rain on the tin roof. They got out of the car, pulling bags from the back, and picked their way across the muddy yard as fast as they could to the house.

"Leave your boots here," Twist glanced over his shoulder into the house. "Louise is a mite house-proud at the moment."

Looking down at the clumps of mud adhering to the bottoms and sides of his boots, Dean shrugged inwardly and pulled them off, his wet socks leaving a damp trail as he followed Twist down the wide hall to the kitchen at the back. He could hear Sam's thump-thump behind him.

The house was warm and when they came into the kitchen, they shed their jackets, hanging them over the backs of the nearest chairs, the air thick and warm and dry from the wood-fired stove, the smell of baking adding to the quintessential hominess of the room.

Louise May Allen turned around from the stove, and ran her gaze over them. "Y'all sit down, Twist, get them a coffee and slice up that bun cake, it should be cool enough now."

She was a tall, lean woman in her early forties, thick brown clipped back from her face, a faded floral apron covering her from neck to knee. Sherry-brown eyes were surrounded by laugh lines, but now had deep shadows under them, and her face looked a little more hollow than the last time they'd seen her.

"I'm sorry about Colin, Louise." Dean leaned back as Twist put a cup of coffee and a thick wedge of cake in front of him.

"Happens to us all sooner or later, sweetie." She turned quickly back to the stove, stirring the contents of the pot on it. "He didn't have any regrets, and I shouldn't either."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, as Twist settled himself at the table.

"You'll have to excuse me while Twist catches you up, boys. I cook when I'm anxious, and there's another family in town who lost someone yesterday, so I'm doing some meals for them too." She glanced back at them. "Twist, tell 'em about Ellen's boy."

"Ah, yep." Twist looked down at the table for a moment. "Curtis went into the caves yesterday mornin', helping out with the search parties. He didn't come back out, and the police found his body this morning. Same as the others. No organs. No marks on him, just one round black burn on his arm."

Dean stopped chewing, a frown drawing his brows together suddenly. "A burn?"

"Yep. Here." The older man pushed up his sleeve, pointing to his arm just above the wrist.

"What?" Sam looked at Dean curiously.

"I don't know." He shook his head slightly. "That just … rang a bell, somehow."

"We'll go up the caves in the mornin'," Twist said, picking up his cup. "The lights were back there last night. I looked earlier tonight, but must be too wet for whatever it is, 'cos there was nothin' tonight."

There was a noise by the doorway and he turned around, Sam and Dean turning as well. Three tow-headed faces peeked out at them, one above the other up the doorjamb.

"It's past midnight, you boys get back in your beds or you'll be sleeping on your bellies for the next few days!" Louise's voice cracked like a whip across the kitchen and the faces disappeared, the sound of heavy footsteps retreating back up the hall and thumping up the stairs.

"About the dates, Twist …" Dean finished the coffee, looking at the man over the edge of the cup.

"Yep, I got your message 'bout that." He rubbed his jaw. "Thing is, there is a coven operating around here somewhere." He glanced at Louise's back. "We don't know all of them, yet, but they've been messing around in the caves, on this side of the ridge, for a couple of months now."

"Last room on the right at the top of the stairs is ready for you, if you're ready to hit the hay." Louise turned back to them. "Sorry, it ain't much, but it's a pretty full house right now, with all that's going on." She looked at them apologetically.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Louise." Sam got up and walked over to her. "I'm sorry about Colin. He was a good man."

She smiled up at him briefly, her eyes very bright. "He was, Sam. He was."

* * *

Dean looked around the room, his mouth quirking up to one side slightly. "Cowboys or spacemen?"

Sam peered in past him, looking at the bedcovers with a sigh. "Spacemen."

They walked into the boys' room and dumped their bags by the ends of the beds. It was a generously proportioned bedroom, but filled with the detritus that only two boys could generate, toys scattered over the floor, posters covering the walls, a number of finished model airplanes hanging from the ceiling at Sam's eye level, endangering his eyesight at every turn he made.

"Monster or witches?" He asked his brother as he sat on the side of the bed and pulled off his socks.

"Beats me." Dean stripped down, pulling back the covers tiredly. "Twist said that what the coven was doing was pretty much penny ante stuff. Maybe they raised something they can't control?"

"Hell's pretty much locked down now," Sam said doubtfully.

"Well, it looked that way," Dean agreed, feeling the soles of his feet pushing up against the footboard of the bed with a resigned exhale. "Might not be a demon, might be something older."

"And that's a happy thought to go to sleep on."

"Yeah." He looked over at Sam, suddenly realising that if the bed was on the short side for him, his brother would be worse off.

Sam slid beneath the brightly coloured quilt and felt his feet hit the foot of the bed. Dean watched him twist around, drawing his legs up as he wriggled down, his snort of laughter clearly audible.

"Tomorrow, we get a room in town," Sam said tersely.

"Yeah."

* * *

Dean rolled over in the narrow bed, banging a foot against the footboard. He opened his eyes and stared in mystification at the perfectly cherry but miniature '73 Mustang resting at eye level on the nightstand next to his head. He could even read the licence plate. 613 HSO.

From the other bed, there was a low moan and he shifted his gaze past the car to see his brother sitting up slowly, one hand pressed against his ribs. He couldn't help the slow grin that was spreading over his face at the sight.

Sam looked at him. "Yeah, hysterical. Get up."

* * *

They walked down the stairs and turned down the hall toward the kitchen, brows raised at each other at the level of noise that was coming from the back of the house.

"Doug, get the lunches ready … NOW!" Louise pushed a pan full of scrambled eggs into a warming dish on the table. "Michael, stop teasing your sister!"

She turned back to the stove and deftly transferred the broiled bacon strips to a plate, adding it to the long scrubbed table and going to get another four pieces of toast out of the toaster. "Maryann, sit your butt down in that chair and eat your breakfast. You too, Connor. Move it."

She looked up as the men entered, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. "Grab yourselves a coffee, boys, it's on the stove. This mayhem'll be over in a minute."

Twist gestured to the end of the table as Dean and Sam poured themselves cups and manoeuvred their way through the children who were eating, making lunches, leaping up suddenly from the table with their empty plates and crawling under the table.

"Six of them'll be on the school bus in five minutes," Twist said calmly. "Jes block your ears till then."

Dean looked along the table, counting three girls and four boys in view. They ranged from the baby, sleeping obliviously in a bassinet close by the woodstove, to a tall fourteen year old boy, sharing the same sherry-brown eyes of their mother and the fair, freckled skin of their father. He glanced at his brother, who was watching the chaos and listening to the volleys of rude comments, with a wide-grinned delight.

There was a sharp toot from the road, and the children vanished, racing out of the kitchen, a shouted chorus of farewells echoing down the hallway over the thunder of their feet, the slam of the front door delineating the silence that fell over the house.

"Help yourself to breakfast, more biscuits on the way." Louise pulled a batch from the oven and set them on the table, wiping her hands, checking the baby and clearing the remainder of the plates from the table in one, efficient sweep.

"Louise, set down and take a break," Twist complained. "You're making me tired jes watching you."

She smiled at him and stacked the plates next to the sink, then filled a cup and sat down. She saw Sam wince as he leaned across the table to get the dish of scrambled eggs.

"Oh … shoot, I'm sorry you two. I forgot how tall you are. There're full sized beds up in the attic, you should switch over tonight." She frowned at the cup in front of her.

"That's okay, we thought we'd look for something in town today, get out of your hair."

Twist looked up sharply, sending Dean a small shake of the head. "Nothing much in town, boys. You'll be more comfortable here when we can find long enough beds for ya."

Sam opened his mouth to argue and saw Dean's warning look. He looked down at his plate. "What – exactly – did you see near the caves, Louise?" he asked as he piled egg onto his toast.

She looked at him, her eyes a little distant as she tried to remember everything about that moment. "It was just on dusk, so the air looked kinda purply, y'know where you cain't see the details of things? Seamus and I'd bin up there looking for tracks, and we come out of the cave that the tourists visit, and had turned downtrail to get off the ridge. There was this sound … this groanin' sound, comin' from down below our feet it felt like. An' we stopped, to listen like, and this woman walked out the cave entrance. It were pitch black behind her and she was glowing, almost white. I couldn't see her face, just this long white dress and long black hair, all twisting around her in the wind. We started to back up a bit, thinking we had no salt on us, just our knives, and we weren't sure if she were spirit or what, and she kept walking t'ward us, then she disappeared. The sound stopped at the same time."

Dean tucked his food into his cheek. "What kind of sound was it?"

"Sounded like the earth was opening up under us, Dean." Louise looked at him, and he realised that she was afraid. Twist wanted them to stay at the house because she was afraid for her family.

* * *

The storm had left the day chill and dark grey, and the road was still slippery with loose mud as they followed Twist's truck up the road and over the ridge line, turning north to get to the Flint Ridge cave system. The Lego blocks rattled cheerfully in the vents as Sam fiddled with the heat, just the sight of the damp, drab countryside making him feel colder.

"You know, if this was England, I'd think someone was trying to raise Morgan le Fay."

"You say that as if I should know what it means," Dean said dryly, staring at the road.

"Well, the literature isn't what you'd call concrete, but she was, variously, a supernatural spirit of Wales, half-sister to King Arthur, a powerful witch who studied under Merlin and the mother of his child, Mordred, who eventually killed him."

"King Arthur? Really?"

Sam shrugged. "The legend is that she trapped Merlin in a cave, to stop him from preventing her overthrowing Arthur. And she was herself trapped in a cave by a spell from a dragon under the earth after Mordred killed Arthur."

"Camelot and dragons … I think I'd prefer Lord of the Rings." Dean flicked a sideways glance at his brother. "And we're not. In England. Despite what the weather looks like, we're in Kentucky."

"Yeah." Sam rubbed at the condensation misting up his window. "Well, I'm just saying', we've got witches and caves and a monster."

Dean ignored him and followed the truck into the parking area for the main cave at the beginning of the Flint Ridge system. Sam snorted as they drove past the sign. _The Crystal Cave_.

"What?"

"Nothing."

* * *

"Well, that was a big fucking donut." Dean leaned against the cavern wall, looking at the mists that were rising and swirling in the parking lot, hiding the black car and Twist's truck effectively.

They'd gone through the caves systematically, following the maps that Twist had brought, exploring every hollow and nook and cranny in the place. The rivers had risen inside many of the caves, blocking entrances to some, but none of them thought it was likely that a monster, or a coven of witches for that matter, would use a cave that was going to be flooded in a rainstorm.

His legs and back were aching from walking, doubled over most of the time, for miles with nothing to show for it.

Twist had showed them where the three bodies had been found. Aside from what the police and the coroners had left behind when they'd processed them, there was absolutely nothing else to see. The three people still missing had disappeared in different areas of the cave and Sam hadn't been able to find a single connecting thread between them. Two of the families were still in town, the next thing they had to do would be talking to them, see if there was any additional information they could get, and then go and have a look at the bodies still in the morgue. The reports had been thorough, but neither the coroners nor the police knew what they knew, what they might see.

Dean looked at his brother. "Families and morgue?"

Sam nodded. "Do you want to split up or take them together?"

"Split up." Dean looked at his watch. "We can be back before dark." He glanced at Twist who nodded.

"Thanks. Louise has enough to worry about at the moment."

* * *

Dean dropped Sam off at the single motel in town, and drove down to the funeral home with Twist.

"Who was the first vic, Twist?"

"Uh, that'd be the fella from Florida, went missing on a cave tour, hasn't been since." He opened the file and flipped back through the pages. "Mort Grayerson, 59."

"No body found?" Dean stared through the windshield.

"No." Twist turned the pages over, one by one. "Second vic was Pamela Jenkins. 33 years old, went missing from a picnic with her boyfriend."

"What?" Dean looked over at him. "What does the boyfriend say?"

"Uh … says they were picnicking outside one of the cave entrances and they … uh … decided to have a game of hide-and-seek in the cave. After half an hour he couldn't find her, and he got worried enough to go find the park ranger and call the police."

"Huh."

Twist glanced up at him. "Yeah. Next one was … Phil Burrows. Accountant from Cleveland. 48 years old. His was the first body found."

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home and stopped the engine. "And when did he go missing?"

"Uh … huh. Actually he was the first one reported missing. Tour guide said he was on the afternoon tour and didn't show up when they came out."

Dean frowned. He hadn't paid much attention into the different dates for the missing vics and the bodies found. But there might something in that.

"Let's see the bodies and then we'll figure out those dates." He opened the car door and got out.

Twist nodded, closing the file and getting out.

* * *

The funeral home was only holding the body of Curtis Williams. Dean took a dozen photographs of the burn mark on the young man's arm. There was nothing else to see on the body.

"We had to release the body of Mr Burrows to his family." The funeral home director, also the local coroner, looked up from the file on his desk.

"Did you do the autopsy on Burrows?" Dean asked.

"Oh, no. Doc Ryan is the medical examiner for this county, he did all the autopsies."

"Do you have his notes on them?" Twist leaned on the desk. "Or does the doc take 'em with him, Mr Luttrell?"

"We keep all the reference material pertaining to the investigation of the body in this office," Luttrell said primly. "We're responsible for all evidence and findings."

Dean smiled patiently. "We'd like to see those notes, Mr Luttrell."

"Well, you can't exactly see them, Mr Plant."

"Why not?"

"They're tapes. Doc Ryan prefers to dictate all his findings to a machine and then write up the notes himself. That way he has a copy and he returns the tapes to me."

"Okay. Can we sign out the tapes for the other three autopsies?"

"Of course. I have the forms right here." Luttrell bent down to the filing drawer in the desk and pulled out a number of forms, handing them to Dean. "Just fill them in and I'll bring out the tapes."

He got up and walked to the door. As it closed behind him, Dean looked at the bundle of papers in his hand and sighed.

* * *

"You got a machine that'll play those?" Twist looked at the tray of small dictating tapes sitting on the seat in between them.

"Yep." He glanced down at them. Each tape covered about half an hour. It was going to be a long night.

He drove back to the motel, pulling into the parking lot as Sam came out of one of the rooms.

"Any luck?"

"I'm not sure. Where's the file?" Sam folded himself into the back seat as Dean pulled out.

Twist passed the file back to him. Opening it, Sam started reading again, as the car pulled out and Dean headed out of town.

"You gonna keep us in suspense, Sam?" Dean looked at his brother in the rearview mirror as they started to climb the ridge.

"No. Sorry." Sam frowned down at his notes. "Amy Kitteridge was camping with her family near the entrance to one of the unmarked caves. Her sister said that she got up around dawn to go to the camping ground restroom and didn't come back." He flicked over the page. "Harold Palmer was with his wife on a cave tour, and his wife says they weren't more than about two hundred yards from the end when he disappeared. He was walking beside her, and then he was gone. No one else on the tour noticed a thing, and it was getting dark, Mrs Palmer said that the group was pretty tight together, because the caves were spooky."

He met his Dean's gaze in the mirror. "How do you vanish a three hundred pound man surrounded by people less than two hundred yards from the end of a tour?"

"Good question." Twist shook his head. "I told you two that none of this makes any sense."

* * *

Dean sat on the sofa, headphones over his ears, making notes as he listened to the tapes, while Sam and Twist spread the file over the dining table and went through the information in it again.

"_No tearing or trauma to the exterior or interior of the anal canal. Same for the superior concha, the nasalpharanx, nor are there any indications that the throat was the access point. Hmmm … Frances, move that light around here, would you? Yes, there. Hold it steady. There is a small area of damage to the side of the head. Can you get a picture of that? There. Didn't see it in the hair. It looks like a burn, and is approximately the size of a nickel. Pass me that bag, no, the other one. Hair samples, evidence bag 0014. Follicular damage, possibly consistent with a burn. Location, temporal squamus. The burn has penetrated all dermal layers. Excised – I need another bag for this? – thanks."_

Dean stopped the tape, frowning down at the handwritten notes he'd just taken. Another burn.

"Dean, there's one connection between some of the victims." Sam turned from the table, looking over his shoulder at his brother. Dean lifted a brow questioningly.

"Four of them disappeared around dusk, from the cave tours."

"And the other three?"

Sam shook his head. "They went missing at dawn. One from the camp grounds, the other two from just inside the cave mouths."

"That's it?"

"So far."

He nodded and turned the tape back on, listening to the rest of the autopsy on the first victim. Aside from the burn, there didn't seem to be anything that the doctor had noticed. He pulled out the tape and put in the next one, looking at the name written on the tape.

He thought about the burns as the doctor's voice filled his ears, describing the preliminary examination, the Y-incision procedure, the examination of the victim's nasal passages. Taser? He rejected the idea quickly. They left two marks, and they weren't black, no matter what the voltage. And they sure weren't nickel-sized.

"_What's this? Dammit, I can't see it properly, too much bruising here. Wait a minute, alright that's better. Victim has a small, round black mark on the underside of the jaw."_

Dean's attention sharpened.

"_Consistent with a possible chemical burn. Frank, what were the results from pathology on that burn we saw on the scalp of the last victim?"_ He couldn't hear the murmured response from the mortician. _"Get the file out, would you? The face and jaw have significant bruising and the mark is difficult to see."_

Another burn. Chemical burn. He stopped the tape again and turned to Sam. "You got pathology reports in there for the bodies that were found?"

"Uh … no. I don't think so." Sam looked at Twist, who shook his head.

"I talked to the doc after the second autopsy. He didn't mention any pathology reports."

"We need to see 'em. All three of those bodies had some kind of small chemical burn on them." He felt a jolt of a connection in his gut, a memory or some piece of knowledge lurking just at the edge of his consciousness, something that he knew about, something that he'd seen.

Twist pulled out his cell and called the funeral home, turning to the other end of the room as Luttrell answered.

Sam looked at his brother's expression, his brow creasing. "You know something about this?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. I keep getting the feeling that I've seen this before, somewhere, sometime, but I can't remember the details."

Twist turned back to them, tucking his phone back in his pocket. "Luttrell says that the doc ordered pathology for all three bodies, for chemical burns he found on the body. Says the reports came back with an unknown toxin as the cause of the burns."

"Well, that's not particularly helpful." He looked down at his notes and added the detail anyway.

"Unknown toxin?" Sam looked back at the file. "Back to a monster?"

Dean shrugged, looking up at him. "I don't know. But we better take that afternoon cave tour."

* * *

Sam looked at his watch as they followed the group through the echoing chambers under the ground. Dusk would be in a half an hour, and so far, aside from learning a great deal about the formation of limestone caves, nothing had happened. He glanced at his brother, recognising the tension in his face. Dean was feeling bored and impatient.

On cue, he scowled. "Whaddaya have to do to get attacked by a monster around here?"

Two people in the group just ahead of them turned around to look at him and he smiled reassuringly at them, the scowl returning when they turned away.

They walked toward the entrance of the cave, hanging back from the rest of the group as the softly lit twilight sky became visible. Dean stopped abruptly, feeling the prickling on the back of his neck, his hand slipping to the butt of his gun in his pocket. Sam stopped and looked back at him.

For a long moment, they stood still, waiting, then the prickling disappeared and Dean looked around, mouth twisting sourly as he realised that the monster – if that's what it had been – had decided against appearing.

"What?"

He shook his head, and started to walk slowly for the entrance. "Nothing. I thought I heard something but I guess not."

They came out and nodded to the guide, walking to the car.

"Maybe it waits until someone's alone?"

"Yeah, maybe." Dean frowned, that elusive memory floating around just beyond his grasp again. Something about the way the dim light had filled the cave entrance, and the cave's silence had been filled with something else, for a moment. He sighed, opening the car door.

* * *

They got back to the house in time for dinner. Sitting at the long, scrubbed table, watching the semi-controlled chaos of the children as they ate and passed the food from one end of the table to the other, listening to the babble that filled the room as the meal progressed, Dean realised that he was feeling a deep ache inside. He missed them, Ellie and Rosie and John. His own family. He looked down at his plate.

"You okay?" Sam's voice was low. He looked up and nodded, mouth twisting into a wry smile.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Miss Channing didn't show up for school today." Tyler's voice broke in the middle of the sentence and his siblings laughed.

"Was she sick?" Louise frowned around the table at them, the maternal scowl stopping the laughter instantly.

"Earl says she got taken to hospital, down in Glasgow, yesterday." Ella looked up at her mother. "Says his daddy had to do two runs last night, took Mrs MacLeod down as well."

"Myron told me that his ma were awful sick yesterday too." Caleb looked up the table to his mother, his eyes wide. "Said she was a'screamin' in the night."

"I'm sure she'll be alright, Caleb," Louise said quickly, seeing his worry.

Twist looked at Louise, brows rising. "They were all …?"

Louise nodded sharply at him and looked around the table at her children. "Finish your dinner, there's cobbler and ice-cream for dessert."

"They part of the coven?" Dean looked from Louise to Twist.

"Yep." Twist finished his dessert, wiping his mouth. "I'll get down to Glasgow, check at the hospital."

He got up from the table, leaning over to drop a kiss on Louise's head. "Don't you worry, they were meddling in something they shouldn't have, but whatever it was, it didn't go after their families, or anyone else, just them."

Louise nodded slowly. Since Colin had passed, she couldn't help worrying about the things that happened, things that might be coming for her family. Dean watched her face smooth out as she put the thoughts aside determinedly.

* * *

He and Sam went over the file again, sitting in the quiet living room, the children in bed and Louise cleaning up kitchen.

"Phil Burrows went missing in April. His body was found in May." Dean looked at the reports.

"So the dates aren't connected," Sam said, setting out each victim's notes. "But the times seem to be."

Dean nodded. "Dusk and dawn."

They looked up as Louise came into the room and sat down on the armchair opposite the sofa.

"How many in the coven, Louise?"

"Nine, that we're sure of," she said, leaning forward. "When they started, seemed like they were just dabbling, a bored housewife kind of thing, almost. But the last few months, they got more organised, started going up to the caves."

Sam looked at her then at Dean. "This might not be connected at all, you know."

"Two monsters in the one area at the same time?" Dean raised a brow. "When have we ever seen that?"

Sam shook his head. "Yeah, I know." He looked down at the files in front of him. "But the coven side of it, doesn't fit anywhere with the rest."

"Yeah, no argument." He looked at Louise, seeing the shadows under her eyes. "You should get some rest, Louise. We'll take care of the protection tonight."

She nodded, gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you, Dean. Twist fixed up the attic beds, you boys should be more comfortable tonight. Quieter up there too."

She got up and left the room, climbing the stairs.

Dean's phone rang, the sound shrill in the quiet room. "Yeah?"

Sam stared at the files, looking for something, for anything that would make sense of the few facts that they had. The burns. The times of the attacks. The bodies that had been found. He shook his head slightly.

"You're kidding?"

He looked at his brother, seeing his face screw up in disbelief as he listened to the other hunter.

"Yeah, okay. See you in the morning." Dean closed the phone and looked at Sam.

"Twist. He saw them. Same thing for both women." He shook his head slightly. "They were both poisoned, by some kind of gas, the doctors think. Caused lesions on their brains and gave them hallucinations."

Sam's brow wrinkled up. "What?"

"Yeah." Dean shook his head. "I gotta get some sleep, I'll do the ground floor, Sam, you take the bedrooms."

"Right." He put the files back together, and picked them up as he stood. "You think Louise is in danger here, Dean?"

He shook his head. "No. Whatever it is in the caves, it's staying there. And Twist was right. What's happening to the coven isn't affecting anyone else."

* * *

The attic was enormous, running the full length and breadth of the house. Half of it was dedicated to storage, boxes and chests, baskets and suitcases and shelving holding the family's excess possessions. The other half had been divided into bedrooms, lined and furnished with beds and furniture not required downstairs. Dean lay on the old-fashioned brass double bed, shifting around slightly on the soft mattress. Sam had breathed a sigh of relief when he'd seen the big beds, and had taken the bedroom next to the stairs with a cheerful grin.

He closed his eyes, hearing the faint murmur of the wind outside, the occasional creak of the beams and rafters, smelling the fresh lavender-scented sheets, and below that, the musty scent he associated with attics, old books, old clothes, old furniture … and sleep stole in.

_The room was lit by moonlight, the shapes and shadows, smells and sounds comfortingly familiar. He tasted her skin as his mouth moved slowly down her body, heard the little catches in her breath and the soft moans forced out of her and felt his arousal growing and deepening. They had all the time in the world and he loved the slow build, lingering on every sensation, loving her until they were both aching with the need to be joined, inseparable. He breathed in her scent deeply, feeling the rush through his body, his muscles beginning to tremble as he dipped his head to taste her, a high voltage hit as Ellie arched under him, his tongue diving into her …_

_... something was different. He opened his eyes and saw the shimmering reflection on the walls, a glittering pattern of light that gilded the smooth skin and dark blonde hair of the girl beneath him. She looked up at him, eyes half-closed and dazed with pleasure and pulled him close, and he slid into her, feeling a molten heat enclosing him, surrounding him, taking his breath away completely as she arched up, driving him deeper. It felt different from what he'd imagined, so intimate, so unbelievably good … "Hang on, just a bit longer," her whisper brushed his ear and he tried, he was really trying. He felt her start to shake, a violent trembling that seemed to ripple down her body, then he felt the ripple inside, running straight up him, a feel like fingers gripping him, and he thrust in through it, as she shook around him, unable to tell what he was feeling and what she was feeling, the sensations drowning him as the muscles contracted, and his balls tightened and he came inside her, hard and helplessly._

Dean woke abruptly, sitting up in the bed, feeling the rush of the desire that the dream had aroused ebbing slowly. _Tash_.

He knew what had caused the small burn marks on the victims. Knew what had drawn the internal organs from the bodies without leaving a mark. Knew what it was, how to find it, how to kill it. He sank back on the pillows, his heartbeat slowing, his body heavy and loose with release.

_"Sex isn't love. It's great, and it makes us feel close and intimate but we're not, not really. Love is being able to be yourself, completely. Not having to hide anything. "_

He smiled in the dark at the memory of her words. _She'd been right about that_, he thought.

* * *

"A what?" Sam looked at him.

"A _ysbryd mynydd_," Dean repeated slowly, his mouth curved up in a half-smile. "Welsh mountain spirit. We took one down in '95, not far from here."

Sam frowned, thinking back. "The tunnel? We thought it was a witch?"

"That's the one."

"Man, I'd forgotten about that." He looked at Dean. "Wasn't that the one you got all bent out of shape with that girl –"

"So, they're extremely susceptible to iron, one scratch'll kill them. But if they touch you, you're out cold. That's what those burns were." Dean looked down at the file in front of him. "They mark the entrance to where they're holed with gold."

Sam's mouth twisted slightly. Not up for discussion, he thought dryly, at least not today. "Gold?"

"Yeah." He pushed away the memory of walking through the tunnel, his thoughts not on the hunt, the flashlight beam playing over the walls looking for that elusive gleam. "They attack only at dawn and dusk. Once the sun is up or fully down, it's safe enough, but with these cave systems being so big, we'll have a better chance of getting it if we go in just before dawn, bring it to us."

"Risky." Sam looked at him. "It won't attack unless we're on our own."

"Yeah." Dean shrugged. "We've got the radio gear. We won't get too far apart."

* * *

At the entrance to the cave, the three men stood quietly, adjusting the throat mikes and earpieces. Dawn was another hour away.

"Check in every two minutes. These things are strong and they're fast," Dean said softly, his flashlight on, the light pointed at the ground. "The lair has to be somewhere in this vicinity, so if you do see gold, in the walls, or by an entrance, call in, don't go in by yourself."

He looked down at the small screen in his hand. "Move back a little."

Sam and Twist took several paces back from each other and from Dean. On the screen, the wavery red splodge resolved into three separate dots, close but now separated. He nodded. Frank had built the trackers after the Rome job. They each had a small transmitter tucked into a pocket, and the receiver would register the signals up to three miles away, no matter what the environment was doing. It wasn't much, given the creature they were facing, but it was something.

"Stay frosty." He turned away and started into the cave, hearing the crunch of their boots behind him. There were four tunnels leading out from the main entrance and he took the middle one, which led, eventually, to a narrow tunnel joining the two cave systems together. Sam took the tunnel immediately to the left; Twist crossed the cave and took the furthest one to the right.

Walking along the dry rock, Dean felt his nerves prickling constantly. He wasn't sure if it meant that he was being stalked, or if just meant that he was worried about Twist and his brother heading into the darkness on their own. He tried to damp it down, his eyes following the flashlight beam along the walls and floor, his ears straining to hear any anomalous sound in the darkness. He couldn't remember if the creature had made any noises in Spurlington. His thoughts had been on something else, and he'd only heard the thing when it had been right behind him.

* * *

Sam walked slowly down the tunnel, hearing his brother and Twist check in a minute later, his own response too soft to echo from the stone walls. He played the beam over the entire tunnel, looking not only for the gleam of gold that would mark the creature's lair, but for any kind of hole large enough to let it out behind him. At the back of his mind, his thoughts of Trish and Marc and Laura were tightly tucked away, but they were still there, reminding him that he had to be careful, he had to be right on top of everything because it wasn't just about him anymore.

* * *

Twist felt the tunnel start to descend, feeling the incline in the pull on his leg muscles. He could hear the sound of rushing water distantly, knowing that the tunnel he was in led to a series of caves where an underground river appeared and disappeared. The first and largest of the caves was known locally as the Grotto, and it had been where Phil Burrows had been found, his body wedged by the water against the ledge of rock above the river. His hand went to the hilt of his knife, drawing it out as he felt the darkness pressing around him, the hunter's sense stretching out through the tunnels, a chill running down his spine.

* * *

"Sam, Twist, come back." Dean stood at the junction of two tunnels, looking down at the screen in his hand. All three dots were there - his own stopped, Sam's moving slowly maybe five or six hundreds yards down the tunnel to his left, Twist's further away, in the far right tunnel.

"I'm still here, Dean." His brother's voice whispered against his ear.

"Twist?" Dean frowned. "Twist, report in, man."

Silence was the only response. He looked at the screen and saw Twist's signal pick up speed.

"Crap. Sam, it's got Twist. Back as fast as you can." He turned and started running back up the tunnel.

* * *

They met at the entrance to the third tunnel, turning together and racing down it. At the lowest end, they came out into a wide, low-ceilinged cave, the rush of water echoing from the walls, the river churning in front of them. Dean stopped, staring at the screen, Twist's dot flickering now, brightening and fading. Sam stared at the low ledge of rock at the side of the cave, the river disappearing under it with a muted roar.

"Dean, it's taken him under there," Sam said.

He looked up, following his brother's gaze and swore softly. "That's why the signal's getting flaky. Is there another way around?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but it'll take us fifteen minutes to get around that way, I don't think Twist'll have that much time."

They pulled off their boots and jackets, transferring the transmitters to jean pockets, and waded into the fast-flowing water, walking slowly to the ledge. Their eyes met as they hyperventilated for a minute, filling their lungs and muscles and bloodstreams with oxygen, then Sam ducked down under the water and Dean followed him, disappearing beneath the rock.

The water was far from clear, carrying silt and rock dust along the speeding current, their flashlights showing barely anything. The stream was fast enough to keep them from crashing into the sides too much, falling suddenly over a drop that gave them enough time to grab another mouthful of air between the river and the ceiling of the rock before they were forced under again. When it slowed suddenly, they lifted their heads cautiously above the water, seeing they'd come out into another cave, this one much bigger, the river spreading and shallowing as it curved around the long walls.

Dean pulled out the screen, surprised and relieved that it was still working. Twist's signal was still ahead of them, but not as far now, and it had stopped. Dean looked up, seeing the river disappear again under the rockface and sighed.

"One more, Sam." He gestured ahead and his brother nodded. They took deep breaths and dove under the edge of the rock, the slower-moving river was clearer, and Dean could see his brother's flashlight ahead of him.

The underwater tunnel was shorter, with only a shallow incline taking them down to the deeper cave. Dean reached out and gripped Sam's foot, tugging once as he turned off his flashlight, Sam's light going off a second later.

They broke the surface slowly, surprised to find that the cave wasn't pitch black, a thin thread of grey light falling down the rockface at the far end providing just illumination to see the shape of the walls, the path of the river. Easing their way silently to one side of the river, they clung to the rock, and looked over the edge.

Twist lay crumpled on the stone several yards from them, his clothes dark with water, his eyes closed. Against the far wall of the cave, three bodies had been thrown, and the smell of decomposition was thick in the cave, despite the chilliness of the air. Neither could see nor hear anything else in the cave. They pulled themselves out of the water slowly, and moved cautiously toward the hunter, iron knives drawn.

Sam crouched by Twist's head, his fingers resting lightly against the man's neck. He looked back at Dean, nodding. "Alive."

There wasn't any warning, not a footfall, or a breath, or even a prickle of nerves on the back of his neck. He saw Sam's eyes widen suddenly and dropped, feeling the wind of the creature's arm as it passed over his head, turning as he fell, and swinging out with the iron knife for anything within reach, his flashlight lighting up as he hit the switch automatically.

Memory hit him as he stared at the creature, and he recovered from the shock of the sight in front of him fast, hearing distantly Sam's harshly indrawn breath. A long and stretched-out skeletal from, covered loosely with sagging skin that gleamed iridescently in the white light of the beam from his flashlight, shifting from black to green and back again. Sparkling insectile eyes to either side of the long skull, which turned this way and that as it looked between him and his brother. The lips pulled back and he saw the teeth, crystalline and fang-like, dripping translucent yellow saliva that steamed where it hit the ground. It moved suddenly, crossing the space between him and Sam in a second and he struggled to his feet, as Sam rolled backwards, knife drawn and in front of him, trying to get enough distance to avoid the long reach of the creature's hand.

In the dim cave, lit by the brightening shaft of dawn light on one side, and the still beams of their dropped flashlights on the other, Dean found the fight with the corporeal spirit surreal. Aside from their panting breaths, there was no sound, the creature moved between them like a ghost, in a series of flickering bursts, unpredictable and so fast that they were constantly on the defence, unable to attack, their wet clothes dragged at them, the chill in the air of the cave sapped at their strength.

He looked at Sam and his brother nodded, moving further away, the creature between them swinging its head as the distance widened. He should have been ready for it, but the move was too fast, and he felt the touch against his neck as he drove his knife up.

Sam watched the creature reach out for Dean, his heart jumping into his throat, unaware that he was even moving until he felt the point of his knife plunge into the side of the monster, bending and sliding off the bone under the skin. He spun away, throwing a hand over his face as the body expanded suddenly, boiling furiously and collapsing into a pool of black ichor on the ground behind him, wisps of smoke rising slowly as the last of the bubbles disappeared.

"Dean?" Sam crawled past the black liquid and lifted Dean's shoulders, his brother's head rolling back, showing the small round black burn on his neck. He was alive, his heart beating steadily, his chest rising and falling, but out cold, Sam realised. He lowered him to the ground again and stood up slowly, looking around the cave for a way out.

* * *

"Take it easy."

Dean shook his head, eyelids heavy as he tried to open them. "What happened?"

"It touched you, you've been out for about three hours," Sam said quietly beside him.

"Twist okay?" He lifted his head and managed to get his eyes half-open, looking around.

"Yeah, son, I'm fine," Twist said. "Helluva hangover."

Dean started to nod and stopped as pain shot through his head. "I don't remember that bit."

Sam smiled. "Dad had you back in the motel and dosed up with painkillers before you came around, the last time." He'd remembered most of what had happened on that hunt now.

"That explains it." Dean looked at him blearily. "Can we get out of here without having to swim again?"

"Yeah." Sam pointed over his shoulder. "There's a tunnel leading out."

"Well, let's do it." He got up slowly. "I'm freezing my ass off here, and the smell isn't getting any better." He glanced at the bodies. "At least we can tell the cops where they are, give the families some peace."

They moved slowly to the tunnel, Sam leading, Twist and Dean walking behind him.

* * *

They'd reached the first river cave, and Dean was pulling on his jacket, still shivering slightly, when they heard it, a low muttering beneath their feet. Looking at each other, eyes widening, Sam looked at the river, and saw it start to foam and boil, bubbles filling the water and bursting as they rose to the surface. He grabbed Twist and Dean, shoving them across the cave toward the tunnel, knowing what the groans and the visions had been caused by now.

"Hold your breath, don't breathe!" he shouted at them, forcing them ahead of him into the narrow tunnel, both men stumbling as they ran up the narrow path. Bursting into the huge cavern of the main entrance, Sam kept pushing, feeling the rush of air from behind him, his lungs burning with the air he still held in them, eyes and skin stinging as the noxious gas swept over and past them and vented into the outside air beyond the cave mouth.

The three men staggered into the parking lot and Sam felt the push behind them dissipate in the open air, opening his mouth and dragging in a huge lungful of air in relief, hearing Dean and Twist doing the same beside him.

"What was that?" Twist looked up, doubled over, his hands on his knees.

"Ground movement, under the limestone," Sam said shortly, looking around. "There must a small fault under here somewhere, and it's been moving, releasing gases from under the crust."

Dean frowned at him, his breathing slowly settling down. "Like an earthquake?"

"Not that severe." Sam shook his head. "Just little fractures, maybe, something sinking further along." He gestured vaguely at the ridge behind them. "But the gases came up through the caves, through the water."

He leaned against the side of the car. "That's what happened to the coven. They must have been poisoned by the fumes, and it caused the lesions, caused the hallucinations."

Twist straightened abruptly. "Louise heard it too, saw the vision of that woman. Is she –?"

Sam shook his head. "She was out here, she said. She might have gotten a small dose, but not enough to do any real damage. She'll be fine, Twist."

* * *

Sam glanced at his brother as the car roared softly up the road.

The headache had gone, mostly Dean had said, dissolving under the strong painkillers he and Twist had been given at the hospital. A small white dressing was taped to the side of his neck, the doctors shaking their heads at the injury, but dressing it and releasing him.

They'd told the police about the bodies, and had retrieved their gear from the house, Louise's gratitude a little hard to bear, although Dean had brightened slightly at the two pies that she'd given them for the drive home, now sitting on the back seat and filling the car with their rich aromas. She'd also passed on a message from Ellie, and he remembered Dean's rolled eyes as he'd read it.

"What'd Ellie call about?"

Dean looked up at him. "She thought the noises and the hallucinations might have something to do with the geological movement of the earth under the caves," he said dryly. "Apparently it was news in some circles for months now."

Sam snorted. "Ockam's Razor."

"Yeah, well, we probably should have checked for that first." He leaned back against the corner between the seat and the door, letting his head rest against the window and closing his eyes.

Sam slid another sideways look at him. "Back in '95, with the girl … what happened?"

Dean opened an eye and looked at him. "Nothing."

"Dad said you'd learned a lesson."

"You going to keep pushing this?" Dean turned his head slightly.

"Why not, it's a long drive." Sam grinned at him.

He closed his eyes again, chewing at the corner of his lip. In the last couple of years, things had changed between him and Sam, for the better he thought. They were a lot closer, in a lot of ways, than they'd ever been. And the trust, that had been shattered in Maryland, and patched back together somehow afterwards, had finally begun to resemble a real bond between them again. He drew in a deep breath.

"She was the first," he said, looking out the window. "My, uh, first time."

* * *

He dropped Sam off and continued up the road, pulling into the driveway and parking in front of the house with a bone-deep shudder of relief. The lights were on downstairs, and as he got out of the car, he heard the front door opening, light spilling out onto the porch, silhouetting the woman who stood in the doorway waiting for him.

"Hey," Ellie said softly as he walked up toward her.

"Hey." He dropped the bags to either side of him, and stepped close to her, his arms going her as she lifted her face to his. The kiss was long and deep and soft and he could feel himself shedding the tensions of the past few days, feel the familiar alchemy of his strength restored, his hope replenished in the warmth of her embrace.

He looked down at her, drinking in the sight of her face greedily. "Everyone asleep?"

"Yep." She turned slightly, closing the door after him as he came into his house. "Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse."

"Good, because I have been waiting for a long time." He dropped the bags in the hall, his arm going around her shoulders and the other sweeping up under her knees, lifting her against him and turning for the stairs. "And tonight's the night, baby."

Ellie's laugh was deep and low against his shoulder. "Sure you're not too tired?"

"Not that tired."

* * *

**END**


	3. Chapter 3 The Air That I Breathe

**Chapter 3 The Air That I Breathe**

* * *

_**Christmas Eve**_

"Can you pass the adjustable wrench?"

Ellie picked it out of the toolbox on the floor between them and handed it to Dean, dropping back on the couch and smoothing out the wrapping paper under the box she was wrapping. She was acutely aware of the anxiety that hummed just below the surface of her conscious thoughts, keeping it dampened down by an act of will.

Five years they'd been celebrating Christmas now together, and she should have been over the feelings of trepidation, the … dread … that filled her as the date got closer. She glanced at Dean, his face dark with concentration as he adjusted the chain and tightened the nut holding the rear wheel. He loved Christmas, sitting on the floor with the children at the crack of dawn, filled with pleasure at the surprise and happiness on their faces, sharing the big dinner with Sam and Trish, all his ideas of family rolled into one special day.

She fixed the final piece of tape over the neatly folded edges and picked up a length of sparkling ribbon, winding it around the gift and tying the bow deftly. The tag was already written out and she slipped the ties around the ribbon and knotted it, then set the box to one side and picked up the next one.

Everything was ready for tomorrow, all the food that could be made ahead of time was done, the turkey was thawing, pies and cakes and the hand-made chocolates she and Trish had been experimenting with, all ready and waiting. She glanced at the tree, almost eight foot tall and taking up the entire corner of the room, bristling with decorations and candy canes, lights and baubles and shimmering under a load of tinsel. Most of the presents were already there, wrapped, the paper and foil shining in the lamplight, stockings hung on the chimney breast, bulging at the seams, even the weather had co-operated, a big fall last night had covered the trees and road, the houses and gardens, in a crisp, spotless blanket of white.

"Done."

She looked up as he set the bike to one side of the tree, adjusted the huge bow wrapped around the handle-bars and picked up his tools, dropping them back in to the toolbox.

"He'll be over the moon." She smiled. "Riding around the house, though, the snow's still too deep outside."

Dean shrugged. "We'll move the breakable stuff upstairs for the day."

He picked up the toolbox and walked around the sofa, leaning over the back to drop a kiss on her neck. "Back in a minute."

She nodded and folded the paper around the basket in front of her, gathering up the edges to fit around the shape, and wrapping a broad ribbon around the rim to hide the joins in the wrapping paper.

Everyone enjoyed the day. _Except her_.

She looked down at the gift in front of her, and tied the tag on distractedly. For the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year, she loved having everyone around – birthday parties were no problem, Thanksgiving and July 4th both enjoyable, even the adhoc and infrequent barbeques in the long summer months were great – it was just this one day when she felt like withdrawing from everything and everyone and hiding somewhere until midnight had passed and the day was over.

She'd tried tricking herself, mentally assigning another name, another reason to the day, she'd tried ignoring it, she'd tried pretty much everything to make it a normal, non-threatening day, but so far, at least, nothing had worked. So she smiled and laughed and tried not to let it show, tried not to spoil it for the people she loved.

"Egg-nog." Dean came back into the room, balancing two cups of the brandy-laced creamy drink and a big slice of blueberry pie, walking carefully around the sofa and setting them down on the low table with a sigh of relief.

"And tomorrow's pie." Ellie looked at the slice.

"Hey, I worked hard, I deserve it." He took a big bite and leaned back.

She got up and set the newly wrapped presents under the tree, stepping back and looking at the pile critically. It wasn't as large as the one she used to get, a mountain of professionally wrapped toys, games, books, clothes and other assorted things that she had packed up after a few weeks' play and taken up to the attic to join the other years' rejects. But each gift here had been picked out carefully, wrapped by the giver – Rosie's efforts looking very interesting indeed – and was something that would be treasured for years, she hoped.

She felt his gaze on her, and drew in a deep breath, turning and smiling at him. "I think we're ready."

He nodded, swallowing the last of the pie. "You okay?"

The first couple of years, knowing about her past, knowing about her childhood, he'd been worried about her on Christmas Day. She'd seen how that worry had taken his enjoyment in the day, his delight in watching his son in such a solidly normal family event. So she began to hide her feelings, began to pretend that she was over the past and that everything was good. She had a feeling he'd wanted to believe it because it made everything easier. It was the only thing she lied about to him, and it wasn't so much a lie now because he didn't ask often how she was feeling. More of an omission, she thought to herself.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just tired." She sat beside him and sipped the egg nog, his hand lifting to rest lightly against the back of her neck, run slowly down her back, rubbing it gently.

From the corner of her eye, she could see his brows starting to draw together, as his fingers felt the tension in her, and she shifted closer to him, leaning against him, forcing him to move his arm to encircle her shoulder instead.

"How early do you think they'll get up tomorrow?" she asked, hoping to divert whatever he'd been thinking back onto something safe.

He shook his head. "Last year it was five." He looked down at her. "Maybe we should let 'em stay up longer on Christmas Eve?"

"That ever work for you?"

It wasn't entirely a fair question. In its own way, Dean's Christmases, his and Sam's Christmases, had been as lacking as hers; their father sometimes not there at all, scrounged trees, stolen presents. She closed her eyes, wondering at the way he looked back on those times. Last Christmas, she and Sam had gotten into a conversation about the ghosts of Christmases past, and she'd realised that Dean had reworked many of his past memories into a rosier view than what they'd actually been.

"Nope." He grinned down at her now, lifting a shoulder in a slight shrug. "Doesn't matter. By bedtime they'll be totally out."

She nodded. It was true.

"It's snowing again," he said softly, looking out the window that faced the street. Ellie turned her head and saw the big flakes falling slowly past the glass. Maybe it would be too deep for visitors, she thought. The Christmases at Last Chance hadn't been too Christmassy, just the three of them, John too little to understand the holiday, the time mostly spent together in front of the driftwood fire. She shook off the thoughts impatiently. It didn't matter, really, whether they were on their own or the house was full of people. It wasn't overlaying her childhood memories of an utterly empty house, no matter which way it was.

A shiver ran down her back and she yawned widely to cover it, feeling his attention return to her again.

"I'm totalled." She turned to him, kissing him lightly. "I'm going to bed." She looked around the room. "Anything you want me to do before I head up?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll check the house. I won't be long."

She stood up, stepping over his legs and walking out of the living room, feeling her shoulders slump slightly as she passed out of his view. The lies, the pretence, were to protect him, so why did she always feel so bad about them?

* * *

Ten minutes later, Dean walked slowly up the stairs, thinking of the tension he'd felt in her shoulders, in the long muscles of her back; the way her eyes hadn't really met his when she was speaking; the shiver that he'd felt through his arm.

She'd told him that she'd made peace with her past, that it didn't haunt her any more. And the last couple of Christmases, he'd believed her, watching her join in, smiling, laughing, talking to everyone naturally, sensing no tension or grief in her. Maybe he hadn't been paying close attention, he thought now, maybe his relief that she was okay, enjoying the day as much as he did had given him an excuse not to worry about it. But she'd told him that she was good, and she never lied to him, about anything.

It'd been a rough year, he considered as he turned into the bathroom, brushing his teeth absently, a very rough year, in fact. Maybe it was just that. Still, he felt better for having made the call. He thought it would make a difference to her.

The room was unlit, but the luminosity of the snow outside gave enough light to see by. He stripped off his clothes, dumping them on the blanket box at the end of the bed, and eased himself under the covers, shifting over to lie beside his wife. Wife, he thought, disbelief still permeating the word even now. He didn't often think of them in those terms; she was his partner, his friend, his confidant, his comforter and the source of his strength, his wildest lover and his deepest love. One four-letter word couldn't hope to encompass it all.

She rolled back against him, making a small noise, somewhere deep in her chest, and he smiled slightly, his hand running up the smooth bare skin of her back, over her shoulder, leaning over to brush his lips over hers, feeling the deep, spreading heat filling him as she kissed him back.

His fingertips had just registered the hardness of the muscle lying under the skin, the knot in them, when she twisted around to face him, and he found his hand resting against the full curve of her breast instead, his barely formed question vanishing as sensation took over, her hands sliding down him, the kiss becoming more demanding, taking his attention at the same time as it took his breath.

He'd wondered, a long time ago, if it would ever become ordinary between them, making love, becoming so familiar with each other's bodies, each other's needs, that they lost spontaneity, lost that shivery thrill that felt like the first time, every time. As he felt her touch over his body, felt his hands follow the curves of hers, tasted the sweetness of her mouth, and registered her deep hunger for him, he realised distantly that it wasn't going to happen, couldn't happen. It wasn't just the physicality of it, touch and sensation and nerves; just looking into her eyes and seeing her open abandonment, her unapologetic raw need for him was enough to send a jolt through him that brought him perilously close to the edge, a swelling, aching torment that filled him, made him groan with its strength, and shut out everything except his own answering need, to be as close to her as he possibly could.

She sighed softly as she settled against him, and he curled his arm around her, his own exhale long and relaxed. Whatever tension had been there before, it was gone now, he thought drowsily, and tomorrow was Christmas. He didn't know what it was about the day, why it meant so much to him. Maybe the years of trying to make it special for his brother? He could still remember the last Christmas he'd had, in Lawrence, with his mother and father, before Sam had been born. The tree and the lights and the way the house had seemed to be filled with love. Sam had never had that, and he'd tried every year to make that up to him, to give him one time when he could feel that specialness in the day. He didn't think he'd really succeeded, not even once over the years. Something had invariably gone wrong, tainted the day, even if just slightly.

He shifted slightly against the pillows, Ellie shifting with him automatically, her arm curling a little more tightly around his ribs.

Now, with the kids, and his brother and his family just down the street, Christmas had become what he'd remembered, filled with everything he'd ever wanted, almost glowing in his imagination the way that long-ago Christmas had. It took away the pain of the years in between, took the last, rough edges of his memories, gave him the hope that the curse on his family was gone, for good.

He glanced down at Ellie's face, relaxed in sleep. Her memories seemed to have been healed as well, he thought, the careless affection that had been all her parents could offer her wiped out by the real thing she had now.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand beside him. Two a.m. A faint smile lifted his mouth as he closed his eyes; he'd be as wasted as the kids by tomorrow night.

* * *

_**Christmas Day**_

The distant slam of a door woke him and he turned his head to look at the clock. Four-forty-five. God, they _were_ getting up earlier every year. Rubbing the heel of his hand over his face, he let out a long breath, then acknowledged the buzz of excitement that was already worming its way down his nervous system. He wanted to see his son's expression when he saw the bike.

He eased himself out from under Ellie, drawing the covers closely around her once he was out of their bed, and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. Hurrying downstairs, he could hear exclamations coming from the living room.

John and Rosie sat in front of the tree, snugly wrapped in their pajamas and robes, staring at the pile of presents in front of them. Dean came in quietly, and stood for a moment in the doorway, watching them, listening to the quiet debate about what to open first, a wide, unconscious smile on his face. He let out his breath and John turned around at the small noise.

"Dad! Santa brought me a bike!"

Nodding, he walked into the room, crouching beside the boy and looking at it with him.

"You gonna try it out?"

* * *

"Mom! Look at what Santa brought! Look!" John waved his arms at his mother as Ellie came into the room, picking her way over half-assembled games, piles of books and toys, and through drifts of shredded wrapping paper.

Dean smiled up at her from the floor. He was mid-way through freeing Rosie's present from the plastic-wrapped wire that held it to the box. In jeans, a soft white wool jumper and socks, he thought distractedly that she looked far too gorgeous for someone who'd just gotten up after a late night.

"Santa was feeling generous this year." She grinned and crouched beside him, picking up Rosie and lifting her up. She kissed her and looked down at the floor.

"What did you get, Rosie?"

"Toys!" Rosie crowed, pointing down at a pile near the tree. "John got bike!" she added confidentially, at the top of her voice.

"He did, didn't he?" Ellie looked at her son, who was crawling around the bike, absorbed in every detail. "Have you ridden it yet, John?"

He looked up and shook his head. "Dad said to wait until you were 'wake."

Dean ducked his head at her glance. "Didn't want you to miss it."

She laughed softly. "Okay, who's hungry as a horse?"

"Me!" Rosie shouted.

"Me!" John yelled.

"I could eat." Dean looked up at her, a one-sided smile creasing his face. She held Rosie out to him as he finished undoing the last wire, and he reached up to take her, tucking her into the corner of his arm as he handed her the toy.

"Breakfast coming up."

Dean watched her pick her way back out of the room, Rosie's breathless running commentary on her new toy filling his ears. Had there been a look of relief in her eyes as she'd turned away?

* * *

Going into the kitchen, Ellie felt her chest loosen slightly. What was wrong with her that she couldn't enjoy her family's pleasure in this day, she thought irritably, pulling out pans and bowls from the cupboards, checking the state of the turkey in the sink, rummaging through the drawers for spoons and the beater. It was ridiculous to feel the same fear, every year, a crawling anxiety that she would wake up to an empty, silent house. Even the years spent living with Patrice hadn't tempered the feelings, despite her aunt's attempts to make the day festive for her niece and ward. It was a pd, she acknowledged reluctantly, one that she didn't seem able to break.

She cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them and pouring them into the hot pan, laid out bacon on the broiler, mixed the batter for pancakes, her hands moving automatically through the familiar tasks, her mind circling around the same thoughts. Losing Kasha, this last year, had been a harder blow than she'd realised, her grief surging out in odd moments, taking her by surprise. The surrogate family she'd surrounded herself with had been decimated and she guessed that was making it harder, not easier, to let go of the fears of her childhood. Her lip curled up derisively as she remembered a conversation with Dean about letting go of people, loving and grieving and mourning them, but letting them go. She was good on the advice, so long as she didn't have to take it herself.

For a moment, she felt a huge wave of despair rise up over her and fall, drowning out everything else. She leaned against the counter, her forehead against her arm, not fighting it, letting it wash over and through her, waiting for it to recede. The fact that she was feeling that, that it was so overpowering, told her clearly that she hadn't processed everything as well as she'd thought.

"Ellie?"

Dean's voice was filled with worry and she looked up, straightening quickly as she met his eyes. So much for hiding things from him, she thought, seeing his eyes darkening.

"It's okay, just a low-blood sugar moment." She looked down at the pile of fluffy scrambled eggs in the pan and pulled it from the heat.

"Bull." He crossed the kitchen, walking up to her, his hand taking the pan from her, setting it down. "Why didn't you tell me that you were still feeling this way?"

She looked past him, to the doorway as John came in, Rosie behind him.

"Is breakfast ready yet?"

"Not now, okay?" she murmured to him. He turned and looked at his son, nodding and walking back around the bench to pick up Rosie.

"Almost, let's get the table set, okay?" Looking back at her over his shoulder, his eyes were still dark.

Ellie let out her breath and picked up the pan, sliding the eggs onto a warm plate, taking the bacon out and carrying both to the dining room. She poured out the batter into the hot flat pan and made a stack of pancakes, Dean coming in as they were ready and taking the plate from her without a word.

The high, piping voices of the children filled the room, and she encouraged their talk, needing the time to let her feelings settle down, to come up with a reasonable excuse for what he'd seen. She could feel his gaze, in between discussions with John about the feasibility of riding his bike inside the house, and Rosie on the construction of the doll's house in the living room or up in her bedroom, feel his confusion and his growing suspicions.

Rosie dragged him back to the living room, and Ellie picked up the plates with a small sigh of relief, taking them to the kitchen and loading the dishwasher, wiping down the table and cleaning up the bench, getting out what she'd need for the Christmas dinner. A glance at the clock told her she'd have an hour or so before she had to start preparations for dinner, and she was standing in the hall, vacillating over whether to return to the living room or take five minutes for herself when the doorbell rang.

Sam and Trish stood on the porch, Sam weighted down with bags, Trish with four-week old Adrienne in her arms, Marc and Laura peering excitedly around her legs. Saved by the bell, Ellie thought, smiling widely and opening the door for them.

"Dean and the kids are in the living room," she said, closing the door behind them, and taking their coats and scarves, Sam's kiss on her cheek, and Trish's one-armed hug. "I have to warn you, it's chaos in there."

"You should see ours." Trish made a rueful face. "Why do you think we always come over here for dinner?"

Ellie smiled and followed them into the living room, avoiding Dean's gaze as everyone found a place to sit, perching on the sofa arm beside Trish and looking down at the baby.

"How're you doing?"

Trish looked down at her youngest daughter and laughed softly. "Oh, we're up at nights, and we're both so tired that it feels like every day is about a week long, but you know, that doesn't last forever."

"You want a break, just let me know."

"Thanks, I will. I don't stand on ceremony anymore." She looked at the twins, crawling under the tree to retrieve their presents, Marc and John huddled together in deep discussion. "Do you need a hand with anything?"

"No, no, all under control." Ellie laughed, watching Laura open her gift. "You just relax and enjoy the madness."

She snuck at look at Dean and Sam, both watching the children, in the midst of a conversation, and slid off the arm, walking back out to the kitchen. One of the advantages of offering to host the day, she thought, she did get large chunks of time doing the utterly mundane, instead of having to be social.

Chopping, mixing, seasoning, cooking, stirring, tasting, more chopping … the tasks occupied her hands and took up time. Stuffing, blending, cooking, rolling out and filling, pressing down and dusting with fine sugar. The turkey went into one oven, the pies into another, she set the timers and carried the dishes to the sink, rinsing them and unloading and reloading the dishwasher.

"You lied to me. Why?" Dean's voice behind her made her jump. She shut the door and twisted the knob, turning around slowly. He was right there, less than a foot away.

"This is your favourite day, you love Christmas, especially now," she said quietly, gesturing vaguely around the room. "I wasn't going to screw that up for you."

"I can't enjoy this if you're unhappy." He frowned at her.

She nodded. "My point, exactly."

"Dammit, that's not what I meant." He stepped closer, his hands slipping up her arms. "I don't want you to be hurting, by yourself, while I'm thinking that everything's fine. I don't want that kind of lie between us."

"It's a pd, Dean, I can't break it or push through it or do anything about it." She looked up at him. "I'm fine, I'm getting through it, alright? I might not be as happy today as everyone else, but it's not as bad as you think, it's okay."

"It's not okay." He shook his head. "It's not okay that you didn't tell me. It's not okay that you lied to me about it."

The doorbell rang again, and he let his hands drop from her arms, turning away to get it.

Ellie drew in a deep breath. He was right, of course. It didn't help the situation. She looked up as the murmur of voices in the hallway grew louder, felt her eyes widening as she saw the old man come around the corner and through the door, felt herself moving across the floor.

"What are you doing here?" She threw her arms around him without thinking, felt his close tightly around her.

"I can see that more surprise visits are in order." Father Monserrat's voice was a deep burr above her. He stepped back a little as she let him go, looking down into her face. "I was in New York last week, and I had a layover in Seattle on the way home. I thought I'd see how you were." He lifted his hands, cupping her face gently. "I'm sorry I didn't see you after … Rome."

She shook her head. "That's fine, I was so glad to hear that you were alright."

"Tsk, what kind of a Benedictine do you take me for, that I can't outfight a few demons?"

It surprised a smile out of her, and she met Dean's eyes over Father Monserrat's shoulder, seeing them filled with satisfaction. He'd done this, she knew suddenly. Called the monk and told him to get out here. For her. She looked back at Father Monserrat's face, her eyes going over his features. It had been a huge relief to hear that he'd survived the attack, that he'd lived.

"I have something for you, just a token of the holiday." He pulled a small box from his pocket, handing it to her. She opened the box and stared at the necklace that lay inside. It was silver, linked medallions with a slightly larger round pendant in the centre, a shining black metal worked with the silver into an intricate design. She lifted it out, looking at him.

"Is this …?"

He nodded. "I believe so. It was in the vaults, with other things from the same era." He took it from her, undoing the clasp and moving around behind her to slip it around her neck. She lifted her hair up, letting it drop when he moved back, her fingers touching the smooth silver discs.

"What is it?" Dean stepped closer, looking at the sigil on the pendant.

"It's warding pendant," Ellie said. "Specifically against vampires and werewolves."

"Yeah?" He looked at her, his expression mixed, part pain, part relief, part something she couldn't quite get.

"The legend is that it belonged to a great vampire hunter, of the ninth century," Father Monserrat said lightly. "Her name was Lucretia Ollivari, and she was said to have killed over ten thousand vampires, never being bitten or turned herself."

"And this protected her?" He touched the pendant with the tips of his fingers, his eyes remaining on Ellie's. "Sounds like something we need around here."

"I thought so too." Father Monserrat smiled. "Is there anywhere I can wash up, Dean? It was a long drive."

"Yeah." He turned back to the priest and walked out with him, down the hall. "Just through there."

Ellie turned back to the bench, filling the pots with water and setting them on the stove, washing the vegetables and getting them ready. She checked the turkey and the pies, and wiped her hands, turning as Father Monserrat came back in.

"So." He looked at her. "What is this about family?"

* * *

Dean leaned on the wall, just outside the kitchen doorway, listening for a moment. He hadn't been sure about calling the monk, not because she wouldn't want to see him, but because it was a long shot as to whether she'd let even him in.

There were still many pieces of the puzzle of the woman he loved missing, or unexplained, or not fitting into what he knew for sure. This was one of them. He knew about her past. She'd told him about it, about how she'd felt, what had happened, how it had shaped her, but he didn't know how to get through. Admitting that it was a pd, that was a big step, he knew, but it didn't help him. Couldn't help her. She knew more about the mind's defence mechanisms than he ever would and she couldn't break through it.

He walked back to the living room, sitting down beside Sam, and watching the kids playing with their Christmas presents, feeling his brother's gaze on him.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah." He looked at Sam and shrugged. "Father Monserrat dropped by, he's catching up with Ellie."

Sam's brow creased slightly. "That's a good thing, right?"

Dean smiled. "Yeah, it's a good thing."

Rubbing his fingertips over his forehead, he realised wryly that he understood Ellie's lies to him now. Sometime, he might tell Sam the whole story, but not now, not on this day, with their kids playing in front of them, and the egg-nog warming him, and more snow falling outside the windows, the fire blazing and the tree shining in its corner. This was almost what he wanted, almost the greeting card picture he had in his mind, almost but not quite.

He leaned back against the sofa, listening absently to Sam's theory of the Rugaru mutation, based on what Frank had come up on the possible pathology. A virus of some kind, Sam thought. It was kind of interesting in a scientific, nerdy sort of way.

A part of his mind was straining to hear something, anything, from the kitchen. Aware that he wanted to be there, wanted to know what was going on, wanted to be there in case she needed him. He let out a long breath.

When Father Monserrat's head appeared around the corner of the doorway, he was on his feet and moving across the room before he'd realised it, leaving his brother with his mouth open in mid-sentence.

He passed the monk and walked into the kitchen, looking at Ellie. She stood on the other side of the bench, adding greens to the pots of boiling water, looking up at him as he walked around to her.

Her face was dry, her eyes clear, but he could see that the lids were swollen, the sight making him swallow.

"Hey." She dropped the last of the beans into the water and turned to him, her arms slipping around his waist as his curved around her.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm alright." She looked up at him, smiling, although he could see that the smile wasn't quite reaching her eyes.

He ducked his head, his cheek against hers. "That the truth?"

He felt her ribs lift and fall deeply against his arms. "Yes, it's the truth."

"Ellie," he whispered against her ear, wanting to know, needing to know what had happened, how she felt, what was going on with her.

"Later." Her voice was little more than a whisper too, filled with emotion. She leaned back slightly to look at him. "I can't right now, is that okay?"

He nodded slowly, straightening up. It wasn't, not really. But he could see that she was only holding onto her composure by a thread and they still had the rest of the day to get through.

The doorbell rang, and he let her go, leaning forward to kiss her lightly, then turning away to go and answer it. His gaze met Father Monserrat's in passing and the old man smiled slightly. Dean wasn't sure why the sight brought a feeling of assurance to him, but it did. Because he was a priest, he wondered? Or because he knew that the man cared for Ellie like a father?

* * *

The dining table had been extended to its furthest length, and it was loaded with food and plates, candles and napkins and glasses, the room thick with the rich aromas of roast turkey, roasted and steamed vegetables, gravy and biscuits and more distantly, the sweet scents of the pies cooling in the kitchen.

In the steady golden light of the candles on the table, and the brighter light of the lamps around the walls, the room seemed a sanctuary of normalcy, of warmth and friendship, family and love. Dean looked around the table, at Sam, sitting on his left, and Trish, Marc and Laura sitting next to them, opposite John and Rosie who sat close to Ellie; beyond the children, Garth and Tamsin, Dwight and Katherine facing each other across the table, and Baraquiel and Talya seated to either side of Father Monserrat, the monk at the table's end, deeply engaged in conversation with the tall Watcher.

He thought back to a Thanksgiving over six years ago, another table filled with people, filled with ordinary conversation and a family he'd desperately tried to be a part of. He'd been disappointed then, by the apartness, the otherness, he'd felt in himself, the setting all correct but the story not his.

This was his story. He turned his head, looking at Ellie, seeing her incline her head to hear Rosie's voice under the soft rumble of the conversation that filled the table, the room. Watched her smile and reach across the table for the bowl of peas, ladling a spoonful onto Rosie's plate, and passing the bowl to John who could scoop his own. He watched her lift her head, laughing at something that Trish said, something he missed, and feel his eyes on her, turning to look at him, the sadness gone from her face, her hand reaching under the corner of the table for his.

"You know, Frank found something in Nebraska for us?" Sam said, drawing his attention back to his brother.

"Something like what?" he asked warily. Frank was finding too many damned cases. He felt Ellie's fingers lace with his.

"Some kind of weather witch, he said." Sam lifted his fork, taking a mouthful.

He looked back at Ellie, one eyebrow raised. "Weather witch?"

She smiled, lifting a shoulder slightly. "Rare, but not unknown."

"I've got the file at home, I'll bring it over tomorrow."

"No, you won't. Tomorrow's a day of rest. We'll look at it on Monday," he said firmly, looking at his brother. Sam glanced at Ellie and smiled.

"Yeah, okay, Monday."

"Where is Frank, by the way?" Ellie asked him.

"I don't know where he went, he took the Airstream out early this morning." Garth looked up the table to them. "Said he'd be back after New Year's."

"Frank's own vacation?"

"Frank doesn't take vacations." Dwight looked over at him sourly. "He went down to Mexico to see a contact about getting some new gadgets."

"This something we want to know much about?" Dean's face screwed up.

"No."

"Thought not."

* * *

Dean sat on the sofa, looking absently around the clean living room, hearing the soft noises from the kitchen as Ellie finished up in there.

Father Monserrat swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, looking at it through the light appreciatively. He swallowed a mouthful and looked at Dean.

"You will keep doing this? Hunting?"

"Yeah, I think so." He picked up his own glass. "It's what we're good at."

"And it doesn't worry you, with a family, hostages to fortune?" Francis leaned back in the armchair, head tilted to one side in curiosity.

"Of course it does." Dean leaned forward. "Worries the crap out of me. But you know what? It's a lot better than living without them."

The monk nodded thoughtfully. "She thinks so too."

"What happened? Before?"

Francis smiled ruefully. "She should probably tell you that herself."

"Yeah, but I want to hear it from you, too," Dean said.

"Nothing so world-shaking, Dean." Francis looked at him. "Getting everything you dream of, everything you wanted, with an underlying feeling that it might possibly not be real, not forever. I think you've probably felt that too. I know I have."

Dean's brows drew together. "Why would she think it wasn't real?"

"Largely because of her childhood. A lot of fantasy mixed in with reality there, a blurring of the lines between them. And the attack, of course."

"What changed?"

"To be honest, I don't know." The monk looked at his glass. "We were talking about her family, and she was telling me about a Christmas morning, and she stopped, quite suddenly. A moment later she started to cry."

"And?" He felt his chest constricting at the image.

"And I comforted her, and she calmed down, and it was only a few minutes later that I came out and you saw her."

He frowned. "That's it?"

"Yes, well she might explain what happened in more detail to you." Francis smiled at him.

He sat back, drinking a mouthful of the whiskey in his glass. He hoped she would tell him. She didn't always.

* * *

Ellie walked through the quiet house, turning off the lights and checking the protection. She felt slightly on edge, her nerves buzzing a little and she walked very lightly, her bare feet making no sound at all on the hardwood floor.

Climbing the stairs, she thought Dean would be awake, waiting for her, needing to know how she was. And that … him … needing that … was the explanation. It had come to her, like the epiphany of a prophet, in the middle of recounting the worst memory of her childhood, before the attack. She couldn't work out how she'd missed it.

She hadn't believed in needing, not until she'd seen in herself. Even then, it had been years before she'd stopped denying that, had accepted it. Needing was something her parents had had with each other. Not for her. And that had been engraved in her bones, in her soul.

Needing was a strange thing. A part of love, which gave freely and never demanded, a part of the self, of the imperative to feel purpose and meaning in life. Needing someone else, needing him, she'd felt weak and vulnerable and defenceless against any pain that he might choose to inflict. When she'd realised that he needed her in the same way, it had been the complete opposite, a feeling of security and strength. Yet neither were correct, really. Because of love. She needed him the same way she needed air to breathe. And it had always felt like a weakness, like something she had to hide away, not tell him, not let him guess at.

Opening the bedroom door, she slipped through and closed it behind her. In the semi-darkness, the snow still illuminating the night with its reflectivity, she could see the edges of his body, and hear in the stillness of the night, the sound of his breathing, a little faster since she'd come in.

She walked around the bed, pulling off her clothes and dropping them onto the floor, shivering slightly, though the room wasn't cool, as she pulled back the covers and rolled into the bed.

He moved across the space between them, and her eyes closed as she felt the warmth of his skin against the coolness of hers, his arms slipping around her, his lips on her temple, her cheek.

She shifted, half-turning onto her back, barely able to see the details of his face in the dim light. She could feel the thrum in his body, where it touched hers, his arousal. She knew it was married with anxiety because she felt the same way, as if they were teetering on the brink of some abyss where the slightest false step would mean the end. He was afraid, she thought, afraid to ask what had happened, what she felt, but at the same time, he wanted to know, wanted to ask, needed to know.

She lifted her hand, watching her fingers trace the shape of his brow, temple, cheekbone, curving under the jaw, seeing his eyes widen slightly.

"The pd came from holding back what I was feeling for you," she said very softly.

"What do you mean?" His brows drew together slightly.

"I was … I need you." She looked into his eyes, unable to read the expression in them, not sure if he could see hers. "I need you so much that it's frightening."

He waited, but she could hear his breath, a little ragged in his throat.

"You know my story, you know what happened," she paused, looking for the right words to explain. "I needed them but they didn't need me, at all."

"Ellie …" he breathed, and she put a finger against his lips.

"Some part of me couldn't risk it, couldn't risk letting you know how much I needed you … and it got caught up with that memory, getting wrapped in it until I couldn't see it anymore." She moved her hand to his chest, over his heart, feeling the steady thump under her fingers. "I don't think I ever acknowledged it, not really, but it was getting worse, not better. I'm sorry I lied to you about it."

He shook his head slightly, and she nodded. "It always seemed like a weakness, you know? I knew about it, knew the extent of it, after Seattle. I thought that if you knew, knew how deeply I felt it, you'd see it that way too."

She heard him release his breath, in a long, slow exhale against her shoulder. "Then it's a weakness we share, because I feel that way too."

"I didn't really realise that until tonight," she said wryly.

He made a small sound, somewhere in his throat. "You kidding me?"

"I knew you loved me." She sighed. "But not …"

He was silent for a while, and she wondered what he was thinking, what was going through his mind.

"Loving you, and wanting you and needing you are all a part of the same thing for me," he said very quietly. "I can't separate them out. Before I knew what they were, what I was feeling for you, they were all still there, so strong half the time I felt like I was going out of my mind."

He shifted a little closer to her. "You have no idea how confused I was, after New York, not knowing what those feelings meant, not understanding why I couldn't stop thinking about you, longing for you. I knew how much I needed you, I just didn't know why that was back then." He drew in a deep breath. "And after Raphael … I just about did go crazy."

She felt the shiver run through him, the memory strong and powerful. He looked at her, his eye shadowy, his voice thick suddenly with emotion.

"I need you, so much that I can't even find the right words to tell you."

Slipping her arms around his neck, she rested her cheek against his. "Just show me."

* * *

_If I could make a wish  
I think I'd pass  
Can't think of anything I need  
No cigarettes, no sleep, no light, no sound  
Nothing to eat, no books to read_

_Making love with you_  
_Has left me peaceful, warm and tired_  
_What more could I ask_  
_There's nothing left to be desired_  
_Peace came upon me and it leaves me weak_  
_So sleep, silent angel, go to sleep_

_Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe_  
_And to love you_

* * *

**END**


	4. Chapter 4 Stormbringer

**Chapter 4 Stormbringer**

* * *

_**I-80 E, Wyoming**_

"Come on, they were great guys, but really, not the sharpest tools in the box, Dean."

Dean glanced sideways at her, a frown drawing his brows together. "Where do you get that? They pulled a heap of jobs successfully."

"Are you kidding? You couldn't see the ending right from the first moment we saw them?" Ellie shook her head slightly. "Dumb luck saved them. Look at what happened when they blew the safe."

"Yeah, well, that was supposed to be funny, wasn't it?" He stared at the road, a long grey concrete ribbon stretching out in front of them, the sun just high enough now to be out of his eyes. They'd left the mountains behind them, and the countryside was a mix of flat plains and odd pockets of undulating country.

"It was funny, but it was also indicative of their level of intelligence." She snorted. "I love the movie, I do, but you can't tell me you thought there was any other ending but the one it had. They were doomed to die."

He shot another look at her. "Yeah, well they could've made it out."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Did you see the ending, Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, a little defensively. It was one of his favourite movies, a western he related to on a whole lot of levels.

"Tell me how they could have gotten out of that!"

"Well, you don't know, not for sure."

"Uh … sixty, seventy guys around a courtyard with automatic weapons, yeah, I do." She looked at his hands, tightening around the wheel, and smiled. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to ruin it for you."

He shook his head, bottom lip stubborn. "You couldn't. I'll believe they made it out till the day I die."

"Okay." She saw the sign for the next town and looked down at the map. "We'll be turning left when we hit Cheyenne."

He nodded. "How much longer?"

"A couple of hours to Scottsbluff, maybe another twenty minutes from there."

* * *

_**Gilbert, Nebraska**_

The little town was quiet when they drove in, a few people moving along the Main Street, three or four cars driving with them or past them, the white painted Protestant church at one end, and the small motel at the other. The afternoon was early enough to be devoid of kids let out of school, but past the morning shopping hours.

"Okay, remind me again of what a weather witch is?" Dean glanced down at the file lying on the seat between them.

"Basically, someone who can control the weather." Ellie looked out the window. "It's often someone young, an adolescent, similar thing to poltergeist activity, where the hormones and emotions are out of control and the psychic power tends to get out of control as well."

"Yeah, okay … but the weather?" He slowed down as a group of teenagers sauntered across the road in front of them, confident in their immortality, in the responsibility of the adults driving the cars. Too old for school, not enough jobs around, Dean thought distractedly.

"The weather we see is just the result of the atmospheric forces – warm air, cold air, and those are just energy. I doubt if the witch is doing it deliberately, the random nature of the storms that Frank logged seem like they were created by reaction; but it doesn't change the process." She gestured down the street. "Let's get a room and then we should probably go to the school."

"What's left of it," he commented darkly, speeding up a little and heading for the motel.

* * *

Driving back up the Main Street and directing Dean to the high school, Ellie read slowly through the file Frank had passed onto them again. The weather in the little town had been changing gradually for the last four years. At first, the anomalies raised little attention. A rainstorm out of season here, a windstorm that had looked suspiciously like a tornado rising suddenly in the middle of winter and then dissipating over the course of an afternoon without causing any major damage.

The last year, however, had seen a marked increase in events that the meteorologists were so fond of calling 'extreme weather'. One hundred twisters had hit the town over the last spring-summer period, more than double the number seen over the entire state. Three snowstorms had dumped more than eighty inches of snow, just over this county, in August. And in May, the thunderstorm that had hit the town had destroyed the high school on the evening of the senior prom, leaving hundreds of students injured and traumatised.

Four deaths over the last six months could be attributed directly to the unseasonal or downright malicious weather. Two students, recently graduated, had died when their car had gone off the road in a sudden ice storm in June. Two months later, one of the teachers, Mr Hennessy, had died on the front lawn of his home, struck by lightning. And in December, Carl Feldman, twenty-two years old, and apprenticed to the only mechanic in town, had been killed when another lightning storm had hit the town and multiple strikes had brought the power lines down onto his house and it had burned to the ground.

Why the sudden escalation? From May to December the events had been more localised than ever before, hitting the town itself, not just the county, not just the region. She rubbed her forehead with the inside of her wrist and stretched her neck back against the seat, yanking down the unfamiliar skirt at the same time.

Dean had been astonished when she'd come out of the bathroom, hair twisted into a smooth and shining French twist at the back of her head, the dark navy skirt and jacket crisp and business-like, the white blouse under it delicate and feminine with a scalloped neckline and fine white embroidered detail around the edges. He was wearing his long-suffering dark grey suit, but he hadn't obviously hadn't considered what Ellie might put on. His eyes had travelled down past the skirt's hem, which sat modestly just above the knee, taking in the smooth stockings, and high-heeled pumps in the same shade of navy as the suit, his breath escaping in a long, slow whistle. She'd laughed and picked up the thick wool overcoat that completed the career woman look, shaking her head at him.

"We're here." Dean glanced over at her as he pulled into the school's car park, choosing a slot in an empty area. Ellie straightened up and closed the file, pushing it into her bag.

Dean got out and looked around. The school had been rebuilt over the summer vacation, and now, covered in snow, looked more or less as good as new, if you could overlook the still-standing remains of the big oaks and maples that had been smashed apart by the storm, their jagged trunks somewhat softened by the blanket of snow. He shut and locked the car, and wandered to the oak near the steps, looking up at the wide trunk, split in half, almost to the ground. He heard the squeak and crunch of Ellie's shoes on the snow behind him and turned.

"Some kind of storm to do that."

"Yeah." She leaned forward, looking closely at the trunk, reaching out to brush a little of the snow from the bottom edge of the split. Someone had carved their initials into the tree.

_B.C._

On the other side of the splintered gash were another set of initials. _D.L_.

Dean looked at them, split apart perfectly. "Pretty good aim."

Ellie straightened up, nodding. "Let's get a list of the graduating students while we're here."

"Yeah." He turned away with her, following her up the swept and salted concrete steps into the school. She glanced back at him.

"You can walk beside me; I'm not going to fall."

"View's better from back here." He grinned at her.

* * *

"Mr Corelli will see you now." The principal's secretary smiled politely at them and gestured to the door beside her desk, and they got up from the hard, plastic chairs and walked to it, Dean opening it and following Ellie inside.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Hughes," Mr Corelli walked quickly around the huge desk that took up most of the small office, holding out his hand to Dean. "We're having some problems with the county about the removal of the dead trees."

"No problem," Dean said, shaking it briefly. "We understand how busy you must be. This is my associate, Ms Anderson."

Corelli's brows lifted slightly as he took Ellie's hand, and she quickly hid a grimace of distaste at his limp, somewhat sweaty grip under a wide smile.

"Now, I'm sorry but I didn't quite understand why Midwest Family is interested in the school now?" He gestured to the two hard plastic chairs in front of the desk and powered around the other side, circumnavigating the massive piece of furniture and settling himself back into his chair. Dean sighed inwardly as he realised his ass still held the shape of the one in the outer office. "The policy has been paid; we've had most of the work done already."

"Actually we're covering several cases here, Mr Corelli. The graduating students who were killed just after the school's tragic event, and another customer who died in an unrelated incident." Ellie smiled at him, leaning forward slightly. "Mainly we need the background to these events for the policies for the families. I'm sure you understand that we can't discuss the details of those, but it would be helpful if we could interview some of the other graduating students, and get an amalgamated view of all three incidents, at least as much of one as possible."

"Oh. Of course." Corelli spread his hands out expansively. "Just tell me what you need."

Ellie glanced at Dean, who nodded thoughtfully. "A list of the students present at the senior's dance, and their contact details; we'd like a copy of the school's DRP as well."

"Of course." He leaned across the desk and pressed the intercom. "Sheila? Could you please run copies of the Senior Dance attendance sheets, and the DRP? Thank you."

"Were you at the dance, Mr Corelli?" Ellie asked quietly. Corelli nodded, pulling a large handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping his palms under the desk. "Then we'd like to hear from you, what happened that night, if you have the time?"

"Yes." The principal looked around the room for a few moments, then finally allowed his gaze to settle on Dean. "The forecast, that night, you know, was for clear skies, mild temperatures … just perfect weather for the evening." He shook his head and pulled the wire-framed glasses from his nose, wiping them distractedly and pushing them back on.

"Everything was actually going very well. The students were organised, the band had arrived and it didn't require every socket in the building, people were enjoying themselves, behaving themselves –" He looked quickly between them. "You know, that's not always the case at a high school dance, although we generally muddle through."

Ellie nodded understandingly, and he seemed to find reassurance in that, turning back to Dean. "Up until ten o'clock, anyway."

"What happened at ten o'clock?" Dean asked, looking at the fresh sweat suddenly beading the man's forehead. What was up with this guy? He'd seen men guilty of murder looking more relaxed.

"There was a – a – well, there was an unpleasantness."

Dean looked at him, struggling to control his expression. What the fuck was 'an unpleasantness'?

"Go on," Ellie prompted Corelli gently, seeing Dean's face freeze from the corner of her eye.

"Now, please understand I did not witness the encounter directly myself. One of my teachers brought it to my attention, and I only saw the tail end of the confrontation, as it were."

"Of course." Ellie nodded encouragingly.

"One of our students apparently attacked another." Corelli drew in a deep breath. "It was something to do with who had invited who, and frankly the details were not clear."

"We'd like the names of the students involved, Mr Corelli," Dean said.

"Ah … I'm not sure I can release those kinds of details, Mr Hughes." Corelli looked around the room nervously. "Privacy and so on, you know. The students were disciplined at the time of the event, and those files are only available to education staff and the parents of the children involved, I'm afraid."

Ellie smiled understandingly. "We do understand the ramifications here, Mr Corelli, but as every incident on the evening in question may have a bearing in understanding the entire event, I'm afraid we're going to have to insist on those names, or include the lack of co-operation and subsequent omission in our report to headquarters."

"I don't see how it can possibly have a bearing on a weather event, Ms Anderson?"

"We don't make the rules, Mr Corelli, as I'm sure you understand, but we do have to follow them."

"Yes, well." He pulled his glasses off again and wiped them, looping them back over his ears with a delicate flourish. "I suppose the insurance company has the right to know the details, and you do represent the families of the students, after all."

Ellie nodded, ducking her head at that information. "Quite so, Mr Corelli."

"Ben Carpenter, Danielle Lorrentenso, and Melanie Rourke." Corelli watched her write the names in her notebook neatly, sighing deeply.

"And what was the nature of their altercation?"

"Ah … well, it was physical. Miss Lorrentenso attacked Miss Rourke while she and Mr Carpenter were on the dance floor." He cleared his throat, looking down at his hands. "She was very determined. It took three men to subdue her."

Dean frowned slightly. "And how long after that did the storm hit?"

"It would have been about two hours later, the ceremonies had just finished, King and Queen and speeches and so on. We had no warning really. One minute it was quiet and peaceful, Mr Hennessy had just been outside to check the grounds for students and by the time he re-entered the hall, the roof had collapsed with the weight of the rain on it."

"Your response must have been very swift and decisive, Mr Corelli, to have saved everyone inside." Ellie looked down at the notebook in her lap.

"Yes, well, we have tried to be thorough in the matter of the student's safety," Corelli nodded. "I called the police, and the hospital, to alert them for injuries, called the fire brigade to cut the power before the place caught on fire – our transformers blew when the lightning struck them, it was a miracle no one was killed then – and got everyone into another building, but the storm became stronger, if anything and we ran outside when the old wing started to collapse."

Ellie glanced at Dean and he nodded slightly, getting up. "Thanks, Mr Corelli. I think that's all we need."

"Oh. Good," Corelli said, dabbing at his face with the handkerchief. "Sheila should have the details you need." He stood up but decided against coming around the desk again.

The secretary, Sheila, did indeed have the list and the Disaster Recovery Plan, and she handed them to Ellie as they came out of the inner office. Ellie tucked the papers into the file and followed Dean out to the corridor and down the stairs. They walked out of the building in silence, stopping on the broad flight of steps at the entrance to button up their coats.

"Well," Ellie said softly. Dean pulled the collar around his ears and nodded.

"Yeah."

* * *

Ellie pulled off her coat and jacket as they entered the motel room, dropping her bag on the sofa and leaving the clothing hanging over the back of a chair. She turned in time to see Dean closing the door, lean up against it, his gaze riveted to her legs.

"How long?" She crossed her arms, standing in front of him. He looked up, wide-eyed.

"How long what?"

"How long is it going to take you to get used to this outfit?"

He shrugged, smiling and walked to her, vaguely surprised by the three extra inches of height the pumps had given her.

"You're not worried that I'm going to think you're too sexy to do the job, are you?"

Her mouth twisted slightly. "No, I'm worried _you're_ going to be distracted at the wrong moment and not be able to do the job."

He smiled down at her. "Nah, it's me."

"Yeah, exactly."

"We could, you know, desensitise the whole thing." He lifted a brow, letting his gaze travel slowly down her and back up, his fingers finding the small pearl buttons of her blouse, and undoing them slowly.

"Desensitise it?" Ellie shook her head. "I have to wear this for the interviews this afternoon, Dean."

"We'll be careful." He bent his head, running an almost-smooth-shaven cheek along hers. "Real careful."

He slid the soft, filmy material out from the waistband of her skirt, pulling it back until it hung over her shoulders, revealing the white silk and lace bra beneath. Ellie felt her breath rush out of her, as his hands slid slowly up her ribs, thumbs rubbing over her nipples through the thin material.

"Don't … uh … tell me, you've got a fantasy about business women, Dean," she breathed, tipping her head back as sensation flooded her nerve endings.

"Just one," he murmured, his mouth trailing down the long, exposed column of her throat. "And I didn't even know it until you walked out looking like this."

He dragged in a deep breath. "So, it's really your fault."

She shivered as he pushed her back against the table. "My fault? How did you think I was … oh … uh … going to dress … as … uh … an insurance … oh … agent?"

"Stop talking, you're distracting me."

"I know, that's the whole –"

He lifted his head and kissed her, cutting her off, as her arms slid up and over his shoulders, and around his neck. His hands moved down her hips, gathering folds of the skirt in his fingers, and drawing it up, his breath catching a little as his fingertips followed the satin of the stockings up her thigh and then slipped off onto the silk of skin. Breaking the kiss, he looked down, brows rising.

"You are _not_ going to tell me that's not for me," he raised his gaze to hers as his fingers slid under the suspenders, following the inside curve of her thighs, rubbing her slowly through the white silk panties that matched the bra.

"No, not for you," Ellie said, her indrawn breath hissing between her teeth. "Don't like pantyhose, it's too –"

"Sshh …" He covered her mouth with his, the kiss deepening and intensifying as his fingers slipped past the elastic and inside.

* * *

"You don't seem that desensitised to me," Ellie said dryly as she slid out of the car, her skirt riding up, and Dean's gaze locked onto the length of thigh now exposed.

He laughed. "Might take me a few goes to get really used to it."

"Huh." She turned, reaching into the car to pull out her bag, feeling his gaze as strongly as if he'd run his hands over her. "You do this when I'm wearing jeans?"

"All the time." He nodded, closing the car door as she straightened up and walked past him. She stopped at the front gate to the house.

"Okay, are you ready? No stray x-rated thoughts floating around?"

He smiled wistfully at her for a moment, then nodded, his expression smoothing out to a business-like scowl. "Yeah, I'm done."

She turned and walked up the cleared brick path, feeling him beside her as they climbed the steps to the porch.

"Mrs Allwood? I'm Carrie Anderson, this is my associate, Don Hughes, we're from Midewest Family Insurance." She passed her business card to the woman standing at the door. "We're finalising some of the paperwork for the damage done to the school, and were wondering if we could speak to your daughter, Amy?"

"Uh … sure, I guess. Come in." Mrs Allwood backed up, turning aside and holding the door as they passed her. "She's, uh, upstairs in her bedroom. Um … make yourselves comfortable, I'll just get her."

Ellie walked down the hallway and turned in the doorway of the room Mrs Allwood had indicated. The house was a pleasant one, the rooms painted in neutral shades, the upholstery a little more bold. She glanced around the room, and moved in front of one of the two armchairs facing the sofa. Dean sighed inwardly and walked to the sofa. Depending on who they were interviewing, there were a number of different setups they used to get the information using subtle rather than overt pressure. Ellie had quickly worked out that young, female interviewees responded best when Dean was beside them, and she was opposite them.

Mrs Allwood came into the room a moment later, followed by a young woman in her late teens.

"Amy, this is … uh … I'm so sorry, I've forgotten your names." She looked from Ellie to Dean.

Ellie smiled reassuringly. "Ms Anderson and Mr Hughes. Hi, Amy, we're from Midwest Family Insurance and we just wanted to ask you some questions about your prom, and the storm on that night."

"Oh. Yeah, okay." She wandered to the sofa, sitting down next to Dean.

"Can I get you something? Coffee?" Mrs Allwood looked at them.

"No, thank you, we're fine." Dean looked over Amy's head at her mother, smiling his patented reassuring smile.

"Um, alright, I'll leave you to it then." She turned away and walked down the hall. Ellie looked at Amy.

"There's no need to be nervous. They're just routine questions."

Amy looked up at her, then at Dean, her eyes cutting back to her hands, curled in her lap. "Sure."

"Can you tell us what happened that night?" Dean asked quietly. Amy looked back at him, and shifted back on the sofa a little, sighing.

"It was all pretty lame, you know? At least until Danielle showed up and, like, started a monster catfight with Melanie Rourke. Did you hear about that?" She looked at Dean.

"Not in any detail. Were you there? Did you see it?"

"Oh yeah, I was ringside. Danielle and Ben were going together forever, at least a year, you know, and then one week before prom, he just suddenly asked Melanie. Danielle was out of town, you know, and didn't find out until the day before, and she was, like, just so mad about it. I wasn't surprised when she showed up."

"What happened?" Ellie asked softly. Amy glanced at her, and turned back to Dean, shrugging a little.

"Well, she just went at Melanie, and we all thought, you know, Melanie's so dead. Danielle's got a lot of Latino blood and she just doesn't stop," she paused, her eyes becoming a little unfocussed as she thought about the fight, "Melanie was screaming and Danielle just sucker punched her, and she went down for a minute … then she got back up and went for it." She shook her head. "I mean, girls fighting, it's like, so bad. And in their dresses and everything, it was just gross, they were, like, shrieking, at each other, and you couldn't understand one thing they were saying, then the teachers got involved and pulled them apart, and like, Melanie's dripping blood onto her dress, and Danielle's hair is just, like, everywhere, but I guess they got it sorted out. Ben was so embarrassed, you could see he was, like, beet-red practically all over."

She drew in a breath, and looked at Dean. "I left after that, with my boyfriend, we were just over the whole school thing, you know? But I heard the next day, that Ben and Danielle got back together that night."

"They did? What about Melanie?" Dean flicked a glance at Ellie.

"Uh, well Corelli must have called her dad, 'cos she got picked up a bit later and taken home, apparently."

"So you weren't in the hall when the storm hit?" Ellie made notes in her notebook.

"No, Mitch – uh, my boyfriend – and me, we went down to the library. I work there, sometimes, so I got a key, and we were, like, just fooling around, you know, when we saw the storm hit the building." She shook her head. "We saw those strikes. Four of them, hit the power poles exactly, blew them up. We didn't hang around, we got in Mitch's car and we smoked outta there, it was like watching God or something."

Dean nodded slowly, looking at Ellie. She looked back at him, a small crease between her brows.

"Well, uh, thanks, Amy. That was very helpful." Dean slid back a little and stood up. Ellie rose as well, putting her notebook back in her bag and lifting it onto her shoulder.

"Sure, yeah." She stood up, not moving, forcing Dean to back up and walk around the low table in front of the sofa to get around her as Ellie walked back out to the hall.

"Uh … you know what was really surprising." Amy turned as he reached the doorway, and he stopped, looking back at her.

"What's that?"

"Well, Melanie's really like this ultra-nerd, you know? Never a hair out of place, legs tight together, you know?"

Dean sighed inwardly. Yeah, he knew.

"Yeah, and?"

"Well, she just fought like a wildcat, I mean it was totally surreal to watch the preacher's perfect little girl just scratching and clawing at another girl."

"Melanie's the preacher's daughter?" Dean frowned.

"Oh, yeah. Sunday school and Bible camp, the whole thing." Amy nodded, walking up to him. "Guess it's always the quiet ones, huh?"

"Yeah, usually is." He turned away, walking down the hall to the front door, where Ellie was waiting. He wasn't sure what to make of Amy's extra information. But he remembered a case, a long, long time ago now, where the preacher's daughter had had a few issues as well.

* * *

They saw four other students in the afternoon, all recounting more or less the same details. Only the last boy had anything extra to add.

"Look," he said, his eyes cutting from Dean to Ellie nervously. "I don't want to get hammered for this, you know?"

"Sure, silent as the grave, man." Dean nodded at him.

"I, uh, dated Melanie for a few weeks," he said, the little half-shrug of one shoulder like a twitch. "And she is not the way she, uh, comes across. I mean, her dad – he's like the original fire and brimstone model, you know, and you don't fu- uh, mess with him." He shook his head. "I mean, you don't shit where you eat, right?"

Dean was nodding slowly, his eyes narrowed as he watched the boy struggling. "Sure, absolutely not."

"Right," the kid pulled in deep breath. "So we broke up, but she – uh –" He looked uncomfortably at Ellie and Dean glanced at her.

Ellie shuffled the papers in her laps, looking at her watch. "Mr Hughes, I need to check in with head office, can you continue this interview?"

"Yeah. No problem." Dean looked back at the boy as she got up and left the room.

They both turned to watch her leave, and the boy looked at him. "Man, how do you concentrate on work?"

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted slightly. "Not so easy. What happened after you broke up with Melanie?"

"Well, uh, nothing to me." He wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans. "But she, uh, she was seeing that guy, Carl, the mechanic."

* * *

Ellie was sitting in the car, laptop open on her knees when Dean opened the driver's door and slung himself into the car. He looked down at the screen.

"Thanks. Nice exit. Kid had a big load."

She looked at him, one side of her mouth curving up. "I remember being eighteen."

"You were never eighteen." He leaned along the seat and kissed her neck. "We need to see this girl."

"Yeah." She looked at her watch. "No time like the present."

He started the car, waiting until she'd put the laptop back in its bag before pulling out.

"Don't keep me in suspense, what'd he say?"

"Long story short." He made the turn at the end of the street, and headed for the church. "Her mom died of cancer when she was twelve. Everyone felt sorry for her, and that year –"

"It rained for a year." Ellie nodded. "That's in the file."

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand along his jawline absently. "Nothing much else until this year. She, uh, starting dating, and got kind of fixated on Ben Carpenter."

"Who was seeing someone else at the time."

"Yeah." He slowed down as he turned onto the next street. "After the prom and the storm, they had some freaky weather for a few days, which ended up with the ice storm in June, that killed Carpenter and his girlfriend." He looked at her. "The kid said that before her dad picked her up, she saw them, making up under the stairs."

"Okay, well that explains the storm that hit the school, I guess." Ellie leaned back against the corner between the door and the seat. "I'm feeling lucky to have missed all that."

He smiled, looking at the road. "Yeah, we were never in one place long enough to get involved in that kind of crap."

"So the first emotional trigger is the dance and the other girl," Ellie mused, closing her eyes. "Maybe she saw them together a lot after that, couldn't control the way she felt and had an ice-cream and soppy-love-song night when she brought on the ice storm?"

"Maybe." He pulled up in front of the church. "What made her flip out and fry the teacher?"

"I don't know. What about the other guy?"

"Well, according to Toby, she started seeing Carl Feldman at the beginning of December. He didn't say they were dating, said that she was sneaking out of her house and going over to Feldman's place for a little action."

Ellie frowned. "And he knew that, how, exactly?"

"Feldman was bragging about it, over poker on a Friday night."

"Mmmm … uh huh. Well, that's always reliable." She looked at him. "Anything else?"

"Said that Feldman was also seeing the waitress from the diner, the girl who tends bar two weeknights, the local hairdresser. Dude must have had loads of energy." He shook his head.

"And not much happening in the grey matter." She shrugged. "Well, that's motive, I guess." She straightened in the seat, pulling out the map of the town. "Their house is behind the church. You ready?"

He nodded and they got out, walking slowly down the sidewalk past the church to the houses behind it.

* * *

The Rourke house was a big, plain clapboard, the yard tidy under its blanket of snow, big grey four-wheel drive parked in the driveway. There were no flowerbeds or shrubs, just a single small tree, slender branches drooping slightly under the weight of the snow. Dean looked at the car.

"Looks like they're home."

The path had been shovelled and gleamed wetly in the light from the porch. They climbed the steps and knocked on the door, light spilling out through the etched panes of glass to either side of the entrance, Reverend Rourke clearly visible as he came down the hall toward them.

"May I help you?" Rourke was a huge man, several inches over Dean's height, his shoulders filling the doorway, the muscle delineated under the snug sweater he wore. He looked from Dean to Ellie slowly.

"Reverend Rourke?" Ellie smiled at him. "I am Carrie Anderson, this is my associate, Don Hughes. We're from Midwest Family Insurance." She handed him her card, pausing as he read the details on it with a frown. "We'd like to speak to your daughter, Melanie, about the storm that hit the school."

"That was months ago. She talked to everyone already." The frown deepened as he handed her back the card.

"Well, we're doing follow-up on the background of the event, Reverend, and we've spoken to several of the students already –"

"Then you don't need to speak to Melanie," Rourke cut in abruptly. "Besides, I'd already picked her up and we were on the way home when that storm hit. She can't tell you anything."

"Daddy? What's going on?" The voice was soft and light and slightly breathy, the girl hidden completely behind her father.

Reverend Rourke turned aside reluctantly, revealing a young woman with smooth, blonde hair, drawn back from her face with an Alice band, wide purplish-blue eyes in a round face, fitted navy pants hinting at slender legs. She was wearing a tight light-blue sweater that left nothing to the imagination.

"Nothing, sweetheart." He looked down at her. "Go on back to your room."

"You wanted to see me?" She glanced at Ellie, then directed her gaze to Dean. He nodded.

"We have a few general questions about the night of your Senior Prom, Melanie." Ellie's glance slid to her father. "We're just trying to get as much information about that night as possible."

Melanie looked up at her father. "That's fine, Daddy. I don't mind helping these people out."

He sighed deeply and lifted a massive shoulder in a slight shrug. "Well, okay."

Melanie turned and walked down, talking over her shoulder, "Come in, we'll use the parlour, I think, it's more comfortable."

Dean followed her, squeezing to the right hand side of the hall to avoid Rourke. Ellie looked up at Rourke as he shut the door behind them. "We really won't take much of your daughter's time, Reverend."

He looked at her for a moment. "She's an adult. Nothing I can do to stop if she wants to talk to you folks. I just don't want her getting upset over nothing."

"These are just general questions, sir."

She turned away and followed Dean down the hall, turning into the small room behind the living room.

The parlour had a small fire lit, and a few lamps glowed around the room. The small sofa sat opposite the fire, matching small armchairs positioned to either side of it, facing the fire as well. Melanie gestured to the sofa, and sat down next to Dean and Ellie made her way around to the armchair closest to the girl. In the soft light, she saw a frown cross Dean's face as she sat down.

"Melanie, could you tell us about the night of the senior dance?"

Melanie glanced at her briefly then back to the man sitting beside her. "It was awful, just awful. I didn't hear what happened until the next day, of course." She looked at Ellie coolly. "My father came to pick me up before the storm hit, and we were lucky that we were almost home before it did."

Ellie nodded, keeping her expression pleasantly neutral, wondering at the faint antagonism that underlay the words.

"We've heard from several other students that you had an incident with another girl at the dance," she said, "Could you tell us about that?"

She felt the atmosphere change, thicken in the room slightly, felt a light tingle in her fingertips and along her scalp. Static, she thought, keeping her eyes on Melanie's. For a long moment, she thought the girl wouldn't answer, thought that she might find out how it felt to be hit by lightning inside a house, but the charge dissipated, leeching away and Melanie turned to look at Dean, smiling and shrugging.

"Oh that, that was … well, you know how teenage girls are about boys." She tilted her head slightly. "I was over him in a second, when I realised what kind of boy he was."

Ellie watched the dark blonde lashes flutter down over the girl's eyes, saw her head incline a little more, Dean's expression changing from polite interest to wariness as he straightened slightly, withdrawing a little along the over-soft cushion.

"So there were no hard feelings when he, uh, got back with his girlfriend at the dance?" Dean asked, looking down at his notebook.

Melanie hesitated again, and Ellie shifted her hand unobtrusively to her back, finger touching the hard smooth butt of the gun that was holstered there. She let it fall when the girl laughed, but kept the position, wondering how fast Melanie could pull her weather tricks.

"No, I know what boys are like, they're fickle, they don't know what they want most of the time." She smiled at him, the artless smile of a would-be Lolita, unaware of how transparent she was, of how obvious her attempts at manipulation were. Ellie felt a fleeting stab of pity for her.

She felt her uneasiness disappear as she recognised the crush. Melanie wouldn't hurt Dean, not now. She shifted slightly in the chair.

"Ah, could I use your bathroom?" She would have a few minutes to look through the girl's bedroom, while Melanie practised her wiles on Dean.

Melanie turned to look at her, a glint of something in the violet-coloured eyes, as her face took on a warm smile. "Of course, ma'am. It's upstairs, second door on the right once you're on the landing."

"Thank you." She glanced at Dean, seeing his eyes widen slightly, her right eyelid flickering in a wink almost too fast to see. "I'll be right back."

She caught a glimpse of the tightening of the muscles around his mouth, before he smiled awkwardly at Melanie, and she turned away. He was a big boy, he could take of himself.

Dean felt his face stretch into a smile as the girl turned back to him, the expression in her eyes all too obvious at this distance. He was gonna kill Ellie when they got out of here, he thought furiously, then pushed the thought away as Melanie inched closer to him.

"Did you have any other questions for me, Don?"

"Uh," he hedged, looking down at the notebook in his hands. "Oh yeah, just one more."

His head snapped up as he felt her hand slide over his knee.

She was a lot closer and leaning toward him, staring into his eyes. "You have really beautiful eyes, did you know that?"

He fought the impulse to close them. "Uh, yeah, you were, uh, seeing Carl Feldman, before he died?"

The hand stopped its slow slide up his leg and her eyes narrowed. "Yeah, for a week or two. He wasn't a nice guy."

"Why not?" He took advantage of her distraction to shift back along the sofa, feeling his back hit the curved arm.

She looked at him speculatively for a moment, then shifted along the sofa again, swivelling around slightly so that her knee rested against his.

"He was fucking around."

Dean looked at her, one brow rising involuntarily. Her voice had changed, from the breathless little-girl to a slightly deeper and much older timbre. The wide-eyed innocent look had gone too, he noticed, replaced by a calculating expression that added another five years to the way she looked.

She watched his face, moving closer. "You're shocked? Don't be. I'm not quite as prim and proper as I might seem."

"Uh …"

He was excruciatingly aware that her father, a reverend who was roughly the size of a tank, was sitting in the next room, or possibly wandering around the house and if she got any closer, his position was going to look a lot more compromising than it was.

"You seem like a really nice guy." She smiled at him, and lifted her hand again. Dean caught it before it made his thigh.

"Yeah, and I'm married. Happily." He pushed her hand back to her lap.

"I think I could probably make you forget that for a while."

"Uh, no. You couldn't." He grabbed the arm of the sofa and levered himself out, taking an extra stride away from it for good measure. "It's not like the movies, Melanie. Not all guys are easy, not all of them change their minds, and not all of them don't know what they want."

She sat on the edge of the sofa, watching him. "Then why are you so nervous of me?"

"Ah, because you're under age, your father is somewhere around, I don't want make you feel bad, but I'm just not interested … take your pick," he said, glancing around the room.

She stood up and walked toward him, and he started to back up. "Am I so unattractive, Don?"

"What? No. You're very pretty." Dean looked behind him, skirting the armchair. "I'm way too old for you. You need a young guy, someone your own age, someone that you have things in common with."

"There's no one like that, Don." She sighed and followed him around the room. "There's no one like me."

Dean stopped moving for a moment, looking at her, hearing the certainty in her voice. "Sure there is."

She shook her head and took a long stride forward, sliding her arms around his waist and looking up at him. Understanding came to him in a silent flash of heat. He pulled her arms from around him, holding her wrists in front of her.

"Not going to happen."

"Ahem." Ellie smiled as they both turned, seeing her in the doorway. Dean dropped Melanie's wrists and took a step back. "Did you finish up, Mr Hughes?"

"Yeah. We're done." He glanced back at Melanie, who was standing with her arms wrapped around herself.

"We'll let ourselves out; you don't need to trouble your father." Ellie looked at her carefully. The girl stared back, her face decidedly un-girlish now, Ellie thought, the expression on her face cold and thoughtful.

* * *

Dean slammed the car door shut, head tilted back against the seat, eyes closed. "Don't you _ever_ do that to me again."

"Sorry." Ellie looked at him, her lips slightly compressed. "Very bad?"

"She groped me." He let out a long breath. "She knows, Ellie. She knows she's doing it."

"Then I guess we should get out of here."

"Think she'll come after us?" He lifted his head, turning to look at her.

"Did you tell her you knew?"

"No." He thought about Melanie's expression when the knowledge had come to him, entire and whole. She'd still been locked in the fantasy, he thought.

"We've probably got a few hours then." She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, frowning as she thought of scenarios. "We should get our stuff and go back to Scottsbluff for the night, I think."

"Yeah." He started the engine and pulled out onto the street, driving slowly as snow started to fall.

* * *

"I don't think we're going to be able to get out of here," Dean said fifteen minutes later, pulling back the motel curtain and looking out at the white-blanketed lump that was the Impala, the thick soft snow that covered the asphalt parking lot, enveloping even the red neon sign close by the street.

Ellie zipped up her gear bag and walked across the room, peering out as she stood beside him. She'd changed as soon as they'd gotten in, to Dean's vocal disappointment, and was warm in jeans, multiple layers of shirts and a thick, soft jumper. Even so, the sight of the snow sent a slight shiver down her back. She thought of Melanie's face, cold and thoughtful as they'd left the Reverend's home. The snow fall wasn't menacing. There was no wind to speak of, just the huge, fluffy flakes drifting down, thicker and thicker.

"She's not sure," she said aloud, turning back to the room, walking slowly to the kitchenette. "Not sure if we know, not sure who we are."

Dean let the curtain fall and followed her. "So she's keeping us here, until she can figure it out?"

"Yeah, that'd be my guess." Ellie plugged in the coffee pot, turning it on. "Shifts, tonight?"

He started to nod, then glanced at the door, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Even with snowshoes, I don't think anyone's gonna get through that tonight."

"She doesn't visit in person –" Ellie stopped, thinking. "Although …"

She turned around, going to the bed again, unzipping her bag and searching through it.

"Although … what?"

"She might, for you," she said distractedly, her fingers pushing and pulling as she looked under and over the contents in the bag.

Dean's mouth twisted unhappily. "I'm gonna be bait?"

"She definitely has a thing for you."

"The last guy she had a thing for was burned alive in his own house." He looked across the room at her. "What are you looking for?"

"These." She found the small case and pulled out two small button-sized transmitters from it. "Jeans pocket, I think."

She passed him one, tucking the other into her pocket and putting the receiver into her jacket pocket. "She doesn't want to harm you."

His brows drew together. "Wait a minute, I told her I wasn't interested, told her to find someone her own age."

"Yeah, I don't think she paid much attention to that." She smiled up at him. "I think you're right. She won't come tonight; she's just making sure we can't go."

She poured coffee into a cup and handed it to him, pouring another for herself. He sat down at the small table, looking down into the almost-black liquid. Ellie sat across from him, blowing lightly over the hot coffee.

"What are we going to do with her when she does turn up, Dean?"

He looked at her. "She knew what she doing, killing those kids, that teacher and the mechanic. Maybe she didn't know when she brought the storm to the high school, but I'll guarantee she knew when she started killing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He nodded slowly. "When you left, she kept up with the act, but when I asked her about Feldman, she let it drop. She didn't say it in so many words, but … in her eyes, I could see she knew what she'd done." He looked down at his cup. "She knew it, and she was … enjoying it … enjoying having that power."

Ellie sipped her coffee. "From July to August, she was seeing that teacher, Hennessy."

Dean frowned. "How'd you find that out?"

"Didn't think I'd left you on your own with her for no reason, did you?" She gave him a half-smile. "I looked through her bedroom. There were emails about meeting places, out of town mostly, and she wrote about it in her diary."

"Huh." He curled his hands around the cup. "Anything else in there?"

"Well, a lot of it was garbled, angsty teen stuff, but apparently in April, her father told her that he was planning on asking a woman to marry him. She gave him some serious hell for it, and he dropped it. There were some confusing references to what might have been their conversation about it – apparently the Reverend mentioned that he had needs or something euphemistic along those lines – and she decided that she did too. Maybe it kick-started her hormones, or just pushed her in a direction she was heading in anyway. It was hard to tell from the diary."

"So her first move into the wonderful world of sex was to try and swipe someone else's boyfriend?"

She shrugged. "He was just the first one she was attracted to. And … from what she's written in that diary, she's never had any friends, female or male, to help out with the social conditioning that most people go through. Up until the wedding conversation, the Reverend hadn't so much as mentioned sex to her once."

"Another solid parental choice." He leaned back in the chair. "So, seventeen year old virgin, suddenly discovers lust and fixates on the local quarterback. Man, you can't write crap this clichéd."

"No. It's a bit of mystery as to why the quarterback dumped his girlfriend for her, but after the dance and the storm, she was following them around."

"Because torturing yourself is so much fun?"

"I guess." She finished her coffee and got up, putting her cup on the sink and going to her bag for the file. She put it on the table and sat down, flicking through it. "I think you're right, she realised that she'd called the storm and she started practising. The notes in the diary were pretty cryptic, but it sounds like she was doing some of it just over the county line, which would explain the odd bursts of weather anomalies in the region but not in the town." She found the printouts Frank had included. "Twisters, thunderstorms … those were already pretty normal for early summer here, and maybe she wasn't sure if it was her, or if it just happened. But on the county line south, June 19, there was an isolated temperature drop. Two farms were caught in it. Both lost livestock." She looked up at him. "The temperature dropped from eighty-two degrees to fourteen degrees in an hour."

"And a few days later there was an ice storm on a perfect June day," Dean said softly.

"Yeah. There was a fair in Mitchell that weekend." She looked back at the file.

Dean looked at her. "Did the diary say what the teacher did to piss her off?"

"Um, he went back to his wife."

"Ouch."

"Yeah." She rubbed her forehead, rubbing at the small crease that lay between her brows. "We can kill her; there isn't a problem with that. If she'll give us the opportunity to do it is another question."

"Yeah, okay, tethered goat here." He reached across the table, taking her hand. "What's the problem?"

"We need a setup that's believable." She caught her lip between her teeth, eyes a little distant as she thought about it. "And we can't do anything if she's going to keep us trapped here."

"What kind of setup?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, you told her you're married. And we're sharing a room." She looked up at him. "And she doesn't like competition."

He took that in slowly. "You think she'll come after you, instead of me?"

"Unless we can give her a good reason to believe that I've left town, in a huff, then yeah, probably." She leaned her chin on her hand. "I guess either way will work, so long as we're not together at the time."

"Slow down – what either way?"

"Either she tries to get rid of me when you're not around. Or I leave, ostensibly, and she comes after you, thinking I've gone."

"Yeah, I vote for Plan B."

Ellie smiled at him and shrugged. "If she lets us out, we can go with Plan B."

* * *

Dean woke slowly, rolling over on the soft mattress, his hand sliding over the sheet next to him. He felt Ellie's back and shifted closer, hearing her soft murmur as she rolled back toward him.

The night had passed in peace and silence, the snowfall muffling the occasional dog barking, the depth keeping everyone in town in their homes. He'd gotten up sometime around three and had looked out to see the cover almost to the wheel arches of the car, the car itself a shapeless mound in front of the room. The night sky had been clear by then, filled with a million stars, shining like diamond chips on black velvet.

He could hear water; dripping, running … he opened his eyes and looked at the curtains, edged with bright light. Thaw must have come, he thought, looking back at Ellie and pulling her closer, the mixture of drowsiness and desire too intoxicating to resist.

Sometimes it was lightning and thunder, their bodies charged and glowing with heat. Sometimes it was like swimming in a deep, warm sea, with no sense of time, no rush, everything building slowly and inevitably. It was never exactly the same, never perfunctory, never painting-by-numbers or even remembering whatever had happened the last time, he thought distractedly, sucking in air as her fingers slid over him. Sometimes … he thought he would die from it, the unbearable yearning and the explosive release through his body, wondering if it could ever so perfect again – and it was. This time, it was like the tide coming in, filling him up, every fibre, every cell, with a languid, radiant heat that just kept on growing and spreading. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her lips were slightly parted, in the tremors that raced through her body, and the pulse beating faster at the base of her throat, the slow thrust of her hips against his and the beginnings of the oscillations deep inside, making his breath catch, his muscles spasm.

* * *

"Where do you want to do it?" He looked out the window, at the street, awash with the snow melt, the sky blue overhead, the sunlight pale and weak but there.

"The diner, I think. That ought to be public enough." Ellie pulled on her gloves and picked up her bag. "You sure it's okay if I take the car?"

He turned to her, grinning. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"I'll circle around, come back in from the west. It'll take me about two hours, leaving the car on the edge of town and walking back in. I should be in place before she gets the word."

"Well, if she comes a little early, she'll be in for a surprise." He racked the slide on the automatic and slid it back into his jacket pocket.

She stopped him at the door, arms sliding around him, looking into his face. "What do you want for your birthday?"

He ducked his head, but the one-sided smile was there anyway. "I don't know, I forgot about it."

"Liar."

"I did." He looked down at her indignantly, gesturing around vaguely. "Other things to think about."

"What do you want?"

His face settled into seriousness and he looked into her eyes. "I want to be home."

She nodded, letting him go. "Definitely."

* * *

"Why is it that you never listen to a word I say?" she hissed at him as the waitress approached their table.

Dean glanced at Janine, according the name-card pinned above her shirt pocket, and gave her a weak smile.

"This isn't the right time or the right place –"

"To hell with the right time and place. I want an answer – right now!" Ellie leaned toward him.

It wasn't the first time they'd pulled this sort of act, but every time, Dean felt the same wobbling sensation in his stomach, seeing her eyes spitting fire at him, hearing the anger or outright contempt in her voice. He pulled himself together and made himself scowl at her.

"Alright – you want an answer, here's your answer. Yes. Yes, I want a divorce. As soon as we get home."

She drew back, shock and pain in her face, and he had to grip the table to stop himself from jumping up and going to her. The first time, her acting abilities had scared the crap out of him, he hadn't been the least bit sure that it was all an act. He was getting used to it, but the sight still got to him. He looked at Janine and rattled off his order at her.

"Give me the keys." Ellie's face was white, the words coming out through closed teeth.

"What? No." He picked up his coffee.

"Don't be more of an asshole than you already are, Don. Give me the freakin' keys."

"Fine." He pulled them out of his pocket and threw them across the table at her. They skated off the edge and onto the floor and he got another furious glare.

"Fine. See you in court." She bent and picked up the keys, standing up and knocking her chair over, her hip knocking the table and almost sending his coffee straight into his lap as she stormed out.

Outside, the car started and the engine revved high once, settling down to its low roar as she pulled out of the parking space and rolled out of town. In the diner, it was silent. Then someone picked up their fork again and started eating, and slowly the small noises returned to the room.

"You alright, honey?" Janine wiped the coffee spill from the table, picking up the cup. "I'll get you a fresh one."

"Yeah, thanks." He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He'd eat his breakfast, walk back to the motel … and then it was just a matter of waiting.

* * *

Ellie drove out on highway 71, heading south. She could take a left onto a local road and do a big donut in an hour, coming back into town from the north. Dean would take his time with breakfast and be back at the motel around the same time she was coming in. The timing wasn't critical but it would help if they could get it fairly close.

The fields on either side of the road were brown and flattened from the enormous snowfall of the previous night, the ditches running high with the melt. She had the road to herself, and she pushed in the tape, turning the volume down a little so that she could hear over it.

It had taken them working a half dozen cases together before Dean had reluctantly decided that she could drive the car without him riding shotgun. He'd sat and watched her drive on each case, his eyes narrowed, every sense listening to the engine, the car, the road. The last case, she'd happened to be driving when they were peripherally involved in a high speed car chase along the interstate, and she'd seen the sweat pouring off him as his hands and feet had twitched and jumped in sympathy with every gear change, every turn, watching her double clutch to get the best out of the car in the tight manoeuvring in and out of the other vehicles along their path. His heart had been pounding and he was breathing like a steam engine by the time she'd gotten them out of the police chase and onto a secondary road, but he'd admitted that it had been adequate test of her skills.

The smile at the memory disappeared as she passed a lone tree, its top swinging back and forth. She slowed, pulling off onto the shoulder and opened the door, feeling the wind against the side of her face. Along the southern horizon a line of cloud had appeared, building as it came closer.

The wind against her was blowing toward the line of cloud and she swore softly, getting back into the car fast, shifting upward through the gears as fast as she could.

Melanie Rourke followed people. They'd both known it. She thought of the thaw in the night, of the gaps between the motel curtains and the window frames, of the way the girl had looked at her thoughtfully. And out of season tornadoes were her weapons of choice. She shook her head impatiently, it was too late now. She had to get out of here.

Behind her, the storm was building, lightning sheeting along the base clouds. And the wind had picked up.

* * *

Dean glanced at his watch as he walked slowly back to the motel. Pretty much on time, Ellie would either be there or not far off. He lifted his head as he heard a rumble in the distance, looking around. Far to the south, he could make out a smudge on the horizon.

_No. No, no, no, no, no!_ Anxiety fizzed through his blood as he looked at the horizon, his thoughts jumbled and bouncing in his mind. _The thaw. She'd followed those kids, had waited until they were out of town. She'd seen them, she must have, seen them in the morning. Shit!_

He vacillated on the sidewalk, looking up the two blocks to the motel, and back down toward the Main Street. Would she be waiting for him there already? How far out of town would Ellie be? Could he force her to stop whatever she was bringing, before it hit Ellie in the car?

The wind skirled along the wet streets, freshening against him as he stood there.

* * *

Ellie saw the bridge as she came around the bend in the road, slowing to look at it. Between the underside of it and the fast-moving river there was at least six feet of room. The river had come up in the night, courtesy of the excessive snow melt, but there was enough space on the further bank to just squeeze in, she thought. The timber and iron and concrete structure looked solid, well-anchored. She bit her lip and turned onto it, the car bumping over the rough surface. At the other end, she could just make the turn and the car bounced down the rough slope in between the wildly waving trees. The river bank was gravel and rock, and the tyres spun a little as she eased it around and pointed the hood toward the bridge.

She drove slowly under the structure, face crunched up nervously as she listened for the whine of metal if she were too close to the supports above. There was silence, and she stopped the engine under the middle section of the two lane bridge, in shadow now.

_God, he was going to kill her if anything happened to the car_, she thought, getting out and racing back to the trunk. She needed tape for the windshield and windows.

As she stretched the tape over the glass, she thought of how far she'd come, the distance back to town, the most direct route she could take. Melanie would be waiting for Dean in the motel, confident that the twister would take out what she saw as her only opposition. Dean would be pissed if he had any idea of what she'd done, what she'd sent. How many events could she control at once? What they'd seen, what Frank had found seemed to indicate that she'd only been controlling one at a time, but she couldn't shake the memory of the static building when they'd been in her house. Enough of an electrical charge and she could disable him, or kill him if her sense of self-preservation kicked in strongly enough.

Debris was flying past now, picked up and spat out by the powerful vortex that was spinning toward her. She looked past the car, along the river and saw it towering into the sky, grey and filled with the branches and leaves, grass and shrubs and small trees that it had drawn up on its path.

She was about a mile from town here, she thought, and if she was going to try and make it, she should get going now.

* * *

Dean opened the door, and walked through, gun out, the barrel swinging around the room. Melanie was lying on the bed, smiling at him. He slammed the door shut behind him, and levelled the gun at her.

"Call it off, right fucking now." The safety was off; his finger was tight on the trigger.

"I can't." She shrugged and sat up slowly. "Once I've called them, I don't have control over them any more."

He looked at her, trying to decide if she was lying or telling the truth.

"If she dies, so do you."

"Aw, don't be like that, Don. Come and sit down." She patted the bed beside her, pouting at him.

Fury seethed in him, and he realised he hadn't wanted to hit a woman this much since they'd had Meg trapped in Bobby's house.

* * *

Ellie ran through the field, feeling the pull and pluck of the wind behind her, her heart pounding in her chest, lungs aching, muscles starting to feel leaden. The roar of the twister filled her ears and she was running with her eyes slitted against the dirt and dust that filled the air around her.

_Not going to make it_, she thought, glancing again over her shoulder, looking down just in time to jump over the tangle of wire and fence post in front of her. It was moving too fast. She could see the back of the motel, maybe another six hundred yards ahead of her, on the other side of the highway that she would have come back in on, but she didn't have it, the speed or the stamina to keep going. She felt her hair tugged in the suction of the winds behind her, and bent low, forcing herself to run faster.

The drainage ditch opened up in front of her before she'd realised it was there, and she fell down the steep slope, tucking into a roll and managing to stop herself before she hit the concrete lip at the bottom. In the relative shelter of the deep cleft, she could wipe her face, look around for a moment. A few feet to her right, the square black opening of the storm water drain beckoned, just a couple of inches of water pouring out along the bottom now, sunk deep into the ground, safety if she could get up it far enough in time, in fact a safe way to get to the motel, she realised. She scrambled to her feet and almost dove into the blackness, feeling the icy water soak immediately into her jeans and boots, crawling forward as fast as she could.

* * *

Melanie knelt on the bed, smooth, pale skin shining in the dim light, her breasts heavy and tipped by coffee-coloured nipples, her hair loose and hiding half of her face as she looked at him.

"What, you need a seeing-eye dog to get this?" His face twisted in disgust. "You're a fucking monster."

She bowed her head for a moment, her hair falling forward, hiding her expression. When she looked back up, her face was utterly stripped of any semblance to a girl. He stared back at her, his finger tightening on the trigger. If she couldn't, or wouldn't, call off the storm, then there was no point waiting any longer.

The klaxons along the street outside started honking. He could hear a roaring now, not distant, but close and getting closer. Inside the room, the acrid smell of overcooked batteries filled his nose and he looked back to her, seeing her hair rising and standing out in a nimbus around her head as the static charge built quickly.

The room went dark. He fired, the flash from the muzzle lighting up a small area, and he saw her jerk back as lightning arced from her to him. The hit knocked him backwards, the muscles of his body contracting sharply. And the wind noise rose suddenly to a shriek, windows smashing, the door splintering in the frame, a chair whipping past him and flying out into the maw of the black storm that filled the motel forecourt from end to end.

Dean rolled sharply to the left, shaking his hands to try and dissipate the shocked tingling from the lightning strike, staying as low and flat as he could as more of the room's contents were sucked out past him. The bathroom was only a couple of feet in front of him, and he crawled to the doorframe, pulling himself in and slamming the door shut, scrabbling to the narrow gap between the old-fashioned tub and the toilet cistern, and wedging himself into it. He heard screams from the other room, a tumult of destruction as the wind pressed against the outside walls and took the roof, felt the shuddering of the building as it clung to its foundations, grateful for its age suddenly, that it wasn't a paste-and-plywood throwup.

* * *

Ellie heard the noise of the water before she felt it rising against her. She crawled faster through the drain, knowing that the rainfall would be on the south-east quarter of the twister, that she had some time before the town's storm water drains would start to fill in earnest. She could see light ahead, a few dim shafts from a grating in the street, and she pushed on.

Water was pouring down the grating and over her when she made it to the junction, climbing up the iron rungs embedded in the concrete wall with her head ducked against her chest. She couldn't hear the roar of the twister any more, just a low muttering of thunder as the storm passed the town to the north, and the rushing noise of the water in the tunnel below her. She felt the grating against her head, and stopped, lifting a hand and pushing against the heavy iron lid tiredly. It came away from its lip, grating harshly over the asphalt as she lifted it aside, and climbed out. The klaxons had stopped, and she looked around, seeing an empty street, several torn and smashed houses, perhaps a dozen cars, lying where they'd fallen, on their roofs, or sides, windows gone, metal crunched and crumpled. Turning, she saw the motel.

The roof had vanished, and several of the rooms were missing their front walls, glass and furniture and appliances scattered over the parking lot. Her eyes went to the room they'd had, and her heart stopped as she looked into it, seeing the interior swept clean, the front wall completely missing, the rain falling onto the dark blue carpet.

She eased herself out of the drain, and rolled from her knees onto her feet, the crushing fatigue of the last half hour and an unacknowledged pain-edged fear in her heart, taking the strength from her legs as she tried to walk toward the room.

_Come on_, she thought, stumbling for the fourth time over another piece of debris lying in the street that she hadn't seen, _this is Dean, he could survive being run through a wood-chipper. He's fine. He might have gone looking for you. She might not have turned up at all. Walk. Keep walking_.

She stood in the centre of the room, looking blankly around it. There was just nothing left at all. Her hand slipped into her pocket, pulling out the receiver that Frank had made for them. Two reds dots, not far from each other. She looked around again.

The small click of the door handle barely registered on her senses, but the raw screak of the door being forced past the twisted frame did. She turned slowly, seeing him standing in the narrow gap between the bathroom door and frame, and felt a monstrous wave of relief almost drown her. As he let out a long exhale, leaning against the doorjamb, she saw the same feeling in his eyes.

* * *

_**January 21, I-80W, Idaho**_

Ellie opened her eyes, rubbing them as she looked around. "Where are we?"

"Idaho." Dean glanced at her. "Somewhere."

Walking down through the trees surrounding the river with him, Ellie's heart had been in her mouth, wondering if the car would even be fixable. They'd both let out held breaths when they'd climbed down the slope to the river bank and seen her sitting snug under the bridge, in one piece, only one small dent in the roof where the wind had picked up the rear end and tapped it against the bridge support above.

Dean had backed it out carefully and driven it back up the slope onto the bridge, shaking his head as he listened to everything, his eyes and hands running over every inch of her once she was out and in the sunshine.

The town had been a mess, but the twister had only brushed the northern end, veering off to cross the county line after the motel had been demolished. Melanie's body hadn't been found when they'd left, and neither of them knew if it had been Dean's shot or the twister that had killed her. Ellie was hoping it had been the twister, it seemed more fitting to her that way.

The ER had been full when they'd gone down there, but a doctor had seen Dean straight away when he saw the black fingernails, the scorch marks up his wrists. The lightning Melanie had thrown at him hadn't been hugely powerful, enough to burn him where he'd had contact with the ground but that was all. The nails would drop off, the doctor thought.

"You want a break?" She straightened in her seat, pushing a loose strand of hair back with her wrist, turning the volume on the stereo up.

"I'm good." He slid another sideways glance at her, as the next song came on, his fingers turning the stereo up a little more.

"_In my life, there's been changes  
But nothing seems to satisfy me the way you do, no  
You make it easy, the way you please me, every time I'm close to you  
All this temptation, I can't see wrong from right  
It's a new sensation, you know I'm blinded by the light_

_Feels like, I'm walking on holy water_  
_Feels like I'm walking on sacred ground, baby_  
_Feels like, I'm walking on holy water, every time you come 'round_

Ellie smiled as she heard him singing along, his voice soft and uncertain at first, a deep burr against the song, then gaining power as he hit the chorus, belting it out. She leaned back into the corner, sunglasses over her eyes, mouth still curved up. He sang with passion and power, a little flat here and there, off-key every now and again, when he couldn't make the note, but never without feeling.

_"You were all I ever wanted, never had a girl in my life 'til I met you, oh no  
I got a certain feeling, you got my senses reeling  
Whenever I get close to you  
You're my salvation, I found you just in time  
My one temptation, you know I can't believe you're mine"  
_

* * *

**END**


	5. Chapter 5 Holy Water

**Chapter 5 Holy Water**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The crowds weren't thick, exactly, but Dean could feel the press of people around him, making his nerve ends prickle uncomfortably. Everyone there was dressed for warmth, parkas and scarves, gloves and boots in bright primaries and eye-searing neons, bright as a flock of tropical birds against the white snow cover. Settled on his shoulders, John shifted and jumped as each motorbike passed them, accelerating up the smooth curved ramps, hanging for a moment against the brilliant blue of the sky, the riders contorting themselves or the machines into unlikely positions before gravity exerted its inevitable influence and they dropped onto the down ramp and rode away.

"Wow! Dad, did you see that one? He was upside down!" John was bouncing with excitement, and Dean grimaced, grabbing his son's ankles as they drummed against his chest, in an attempt to hold him still. He shot a sideways glance at his brother, also burdened by a small boy, and Sam met his eyes with a cheerful grin, Marc sitting transfixed and still.

"Awesome."

Beside him, Ellie snorted into the thick scarf wrapped around their daughter's neck. The Winterfest was an annual event, halfway through February most years, and the children adored it, watching the flame-throwers, ice sculpting, and daring trick riders, devouring the sugary concoctions from the market vendors with a relish unfelt since Christmas.

When the motorcycles had finished their death-defying performance, Dean turned, starting to walk down the road toward the Kids Area, Sam walking to one side him, Marc and John discussing the unbelievable feats of the riders from their fathers' shoulders at the tops of their voices. Trish wandered slowly a little ahead of them, her head bowed as she talked to her baby daughter. Ellie walked on the other side of Dean, watching Rosie and Laura running this way and that as they checked out the vendors' stalls to either side of the narrow road.

"We don't have to come here, you know, it's not compulsory."

Dean glanced at her, letting out a deep breath. He gestured around them. "No, they love it. I can deal."

She smiled. He continually surprised her with this acceptance of the parameters of their semi-normal life. Sam hadn't been surprised. He'd told her that, growing up, Dean had frequently put aside his personal preferences and the dictates of their father to make sure that his little brother got some normality in the towns they'd drifted through – fairs or fireworks, or whatever Sam had desperately wanted to do, Dean had found a way to accommodate it, even if it meant disobeying a direct order.

For a man who readily admitted that his best times were either at home, surrounded by his family, or on the open road, following a trail, events like these, or the shopping trip up in Portland they'd done before Christmas, were an enormous sacrifice. That he did them at all was astonishing. That he did them with a rueful smile and the minimum of grumbling, always contained until the kids were out of earshot or asleep on the back seat as they drove home, was almost miraculous.

She shook her head. She couldn't talk, she was no more comfortable in the press and noise of crowds than he was, ready to go at the slightest suggestion that the day's fun was done.

"There's some kind of meet and greet at the school tomorrow," she said as they crunched over the snow to the huge marquee set up near the river. "When are you meeting Twist and Garth?"

"Uh, whenever. Twist said he'd do the first look around." Dean looked down at her.

"Can you go Wednesday?"

"Sure."

"Dad! Lemme down." John tugged on his ear. Dean stopped and crouched on the slushy snow, grabbing John's foot as it swung towards his jaw. A few feet ahead of them, Sam was kneeling in the cold slush like a convert to Islam, Marc slithering down his back and racing after his cousin.

Straightening up, Dean groaned as he flexed his shoulders. "Thinking that this is the last year we'll be doing the shoulder thing."

"He can't weigh more than that pack you lug around on the runs." Ellie laughed. "You just get all hunched up when he's up there."

"Yeah, well, he wriggles around so much, I can't relax into it." He stretched out a bit more, and dropped his arm around her shoulder. "So, what are we doing at the school?"

"Just meeting the new teacher, I think." She frowned as she tried to remember the details of the note that had arrived last week. "Mrs Koteas retired."

"Really? What a shame," Dean's voice was dry. He and John's teacher had taken an instant and deep-seated dislike to each other the second they'd met last year, resulting in many awkward and sometimes outright hostile encounters at the little elementary school.

"Yeah, I can see you're all broken up about it."

He shrugged. He'd devised a number of tests for the teacher, based on his feelings. Some of them hadn't worked out all that well, making the tension between them a lot worse. He'd had no idea that some hair dyes were really just temporary, washing out when the hair got wet. He still thought there was something off about her.

"What time do we have to be there?" He pushed the memories of the old bat out of his head.

"Just when we take John in. It's not supposed to be a formal thing," Ellie said with a light shrug. "We could go see Jimmy afterwards, see if he's got that new Glock in for you?"

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

The classroom was an explosion of colour, artwork pinned to the walls, hanging from the ceiling, the desks and chairs in primary colours, the children who filled the long room, dragging their parents this way and that, dressed like a rainbow. Dean stood still, looking down at the chair that came up to his knee, feeling a peculiar juxtaposition of nervousness that he was going to break something, and the surreal sense that he'd become a giant overnight. He shook it off when John grabbed his hand and dragged him across the room to see the classes' drawings done last week.

"Dean?"

He turned his head, seeing Ellie standing next to a tall, thin man near the door, and scooped John into his arms, holding up a finger as he looked at the drawing John was pointing at. The house was unmistakable, and Dean leaned closer, one side of his mouth curling up as he saw that John had even included the faint outline of the devil's trap that protected the front windows. He lowered his son to the floor and took his hand, walking back to Ellie and the teacher.

"Mr Winchester? I'm Todd Mackleson, your son's new teacher." He extended a long, delicate-looking hand, meeting Dean's eyes as he took it. Behind the wire-framed glasses, Mackleson's eyes were magnified slightly, a golden-brown, almost the colour of sherry in the sunlight.

Dean let go of the hand as he felt John pressing against the back of his legs. He glanced down, seeing the usually-outgoing little boy looking down at the floor, one small fist clenched in the denim of his father's jeans.

Mackleson followed Dean's gaze and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. "Apparently the previous teacher was reading "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" to the children before she left. So far, I've had six complaints that I look like Ichabod Crane."

Ellie smiled. "I'm sure they'll come around in time."

"Yes." He turned to her, a hint of gratitude in his face. "I hope so. We're reading "The Little Engine That Could" now; I didn't think Irving was particularly suitable for this age group anyway."

He shifted slightly, long legs that did bear a resemblance to those of a stork, bending slightly as he looked from Ellie to Dean. "Well, this is just a chance for us to meet, and for parents to see what the children have been doing." He looked around the room. "John seems very bright and his drawings are truly wonderful, are either of you artists by any chance?"

Ellie shot a look at Dean and he stifled the snort at the back of his throat, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head.

"No, we're not." She smiled. "We run a small, specialised consulting firm, in pest removal."

"Oh." Mackleson's smile faltered slightly. "Well, he's very talented, we do have a program starting in fall for children who show talent in the arts, perhaps we could talk about John starting that after summer?"

"That would be fine, Mr Mackleson," Ellie agreed, glancing around the room. "We won't keep you; you've got a lot of parents to see this morning. It was very nice to have met you."

The teacher looked around, seeing another couple staring at him expectantly. "Yes, only one of me. It was a pleasure to meet you both, and I hope that you'll be happy with John's progress this year."

"I'm sure we will be." Dean nodded. John's hand had crept into his, and the little boy was tugging at it slightly. He watched Mackleson turn away and looked at Ellie, turning and leading John to the wall by the door.

Ellie followed, crouching down beside him as they both looked at John. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I don't like him." John looked at the floor, his voice just a whisper. "His eyes are funny."

Dean glanced at Ellie, brows drawing together slightly. "I think that's just his glasses, John. They make his eyes look bigger than they are."

The little boy shook his head, bottom lip protruding slightly. "No."

"John, is it because he looks like the man in the story?" Ellie shifted closer to him.

John shook his head. "No, that's just a story." He looked up at her. "Wasn't even very scary, not like the ones Uncle Sammy tells."

Dean felt his brows rise, and shunted the question aside for another time. He turned slightly, watching Mackleson moving around the room, talking to the parents and children. No one else seemed to find the guy worrying. He saw a little girl run over to him, tugging imperiously at his trousers and handing him a drawing when he looked down. He looked back at Ellie.

"You run a background on him?"

She nodded. "Clean."

"John, maybe you're just not used to him, yet." Dean tried again. "Maybe in a couple of weeks, when you get to know him a bit better, he won't seem strange anymore?"

The big green eyes looked up at him imploringly. "I don't want to stay here, Dad."

"John, you loved coming to school." Ellie slipped her around her son, pulling him close. He nodded for a moment, then looked at her.

"Mrs K'teas was different, Mommy. She felt safe."

Dean sighed. He hadn't thought so, but what did he know? "Mr Mackleson will feel safe when you get to know him, John."

Ellie squeezed his shoulder. "How about we give it a couple of days, John? Give him a chance to get to know you?"

John nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Good." Dean looked at him. "We'll be back at two to pick you up, alright?"

"Okay."

* * *

Dean stopped at the doors of the school, looking over the snow-covered grounds. "What the hell was that all about?"

Ellie shook her head. "I don't know. I ran the background myself; the guy is as clean as a whistle. Born in Oklahoma, got his teacher's degree there, nice family, two brothers and one sister, small town. He's had two placements, one in Kansas, the last one in California. They were only temporary but his recommendations from them were impressive." She sighed. "I know you didn't like Mrs Koteas, but kids do get attached to their teachers, at this age anyway, and maybe he's just missing her?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, maybe."

He hadn't had any particularly bad vibes from the dude himself. And he didn't think Ellie had either. But it was still twisting his gut to see his son shaken and afraid like that, especially after settling in at the small school so easily.

"Wait and see then?" He looked down at Ellie.

"That's about it."

"Do you want me to stay? Sam can take care of the skinwalkers, with Garth and Twist."

She shook her head. "I don't think you need to. You'll only be gone a few days anyway."

They stopped at the car, and Dean unlocked the passenger door, opening it for her. Ellie slid into the seat, and leaned over, unlocking the driver's door automatically. Dean opened it, getting in behind the wheel, the frown still there.

"This is going to be a whole new level of hard, isn't it?" He looked at her.

The corner of her mouth lifted wryly. "Yeah, I'm afraid so."

* * *

The bedroom was still dark, an hour before dawn. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots. Behind him, Ellie stirred, rolling over toward him.

"You going?"

"Yeah." He turned around, leaning on his elbow as he traced the side of her face in the dim light from the clock on the nightstand. Every single time. Every one. He'd get excited about a hunt, about the planning and knowing that he could take down whatever it was, then when it came time to leave, he'd feel this … this overwhelming desire to forget about it, get back into bed with her, and just stay. Every time.

"Are the skinwalkers still following the plans of the Alpha?" She looked at him sleepily.

"I guess we'll find out." He leaned down and brushed his mouth over her lips, eyes fluttering shut as she deepened the kiss, sending a rippling charge down through his nerves to his groin. He groaned very softly in his throat and drew back gently, shutting away his desire. Every single goddamned time.

"Don't take any chances." She closed her eyes and rolled onto her back, long, copper-red hair spilling across the pillow.

"No." He got up, reluctantly, and looked down at her, sighing inwardly. "Make sure you keep safe too."

"I will." He saw her fleeting smile as she rolled back, sleep settling her breathing almost immediately.

He turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He was a hunter. It was what he did. It was who he was. He let go of the knob and turned determinedly for the stairs. Sometimes, he found that hard to remember.

* * *

Ellie looked down at the files spread across the dining table, her lip caught between her teeth, a small line visible between her brows. She raised her head, looking at the two men standing beside her, both in their mid-fifties, both grey and grizzled looking.

"This … looks …" She looked at Frank, one brow lifting slightly. He nodded unhappily.

"Yeah, that's what it looks like, alright."

"We haven't had confirmation of the findings yet, Ellie," Dwight gestured at the files. "These were just preliminary runs."

"But the pattern seems pretty clear." She turned to look back at the data sheets, shifting the top one aside and reading through the next. "This is a twenty percent increase – and that's without getting the missing persons reports included?"

Frank nodded. "It's not just vampires, Ellie."

She looked up at him. "Thrill me."

"We started looking at other attacks, the other homicides and ran a sweep of the keywords across every law enforcement database Frank could access," Dwight said slowly. "It's hard to be sure because the reports end up under all sorts of tags, but we think there's same rate of increase in werewolf attacks, skinwalkers, wendigo …"

"Rugaru alone went up nearly thirty percent, and those are hereditary." Frank interrupted. "Something or someone is meddling."

She shook her head. "The Alphas are mostly all dead now. Crowley took out the shifter. We killed the vampire … nothing has the ability to do this."

"Well, something must, because those reports are still coming in," Frank said, glancing at Dwight.

"Kath and I thought we'd head down to Mississippi tonight, see if we can get some verification on the rugaru." He scratched his jaw. "Over the state, four more deaths were reported in the last three days. That's too many for one creature."

She nodded. "Dean can give us an idea of what's going on with the skinwalkers – if anything is – he should have found the pack by tonight." She sat down in the chair behind her. "Maybe this is just an anomaly."

Frank shrugged. "Maybe it is. Not going to bet my retirement fund on it, though."

She looked at him, one corner of her mouth tucking in. "No. Alright, we'll keep an eye on it. Not much else we can do without more information. How long till you can do the next array?"

"Not until mid-month." Frank grimaced. "They're not updating the databases on a weekly basis anymore. Budget cuts."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Of course."

"I thought I'd take a run up to Seattle. Get some local data and see if there's a correlation with the national figures," he added.

She frowned. "How long do you need?"

"A few days. It's not vital that I do it right now, if you need me to stay?"

"No." She rubbed her forehead. "No, you'll still be in touch."

"Uh, listen, Baraquiel thought it would be a good idea if we ran this past Castiel." Dwight looked down at the table.

"I thought Cas was doing something hush-hush in Heaven?"

"He is. Apparently. Baraquiel and the others are meeting him down around Big Sur, somewhere in the mountains." Frank pulled off his glasses, taking a soft cloth from his pocket and cleaning them. "They're hoping to keep it from Michael."

Ellie exhaled. "Okay, well that leaves us pretty thin here, but I don't suppose much will happen in the next few days."

Dwight nodded. "We'll be back as soon as we can. Oh, and Twist said that he finally got in contact with Laney's group, in Michigan."

"That's good news. Are they all alright?"

"Said they were." Dwight shrugged. "They were the ones who gave us the heads' up on the wendigo increase."

"We should probably give them a hand with that, then." She looked down at the files again. "If we're not overrun with more local problems."

"Yeah."

* * *

_**Billings, Montana**_

Sam looked up as his brother walked into the room, hair damp and sticking out in every direction after a shower.

"Okay, the good news is that the pack is definitely here."

Dean reached into his duffle and dragged out a handful of clean clothes. "And …?"

"The bad news is that it's a lot bigger than we thought." Sam swivelled the laptop around on the table. "A hundred strong, at least."

"What?" Dean hopped over to the table, dragging on a sock. He leaned against the edge, as he yanked the recalcitrant sock over his heel, staring at the screen. The security camera feed showed the ground floor of a big warehouse, shelving and pallets stacked around the walls. In the centre of the room, a wide circle of men surrounded an open space. In the space, two men faced each other, hands curled into fists, circling around, looking for an opening.

"Fight Club?" Dean looked at his brother. "What are they doing?"

"Garth thinks they're deciding on a new leader." Sam tapped the keyboard and several other windows opened, showing smaller groups heading for the warehouse, the time stamp a couple of days earlier. "If the smaller packs joined up, then they'd be fighting to see who leads the consolidated group."

Dean turned away, moving to the bed and sitting on the edge as he pulled on his boots, and picked up a t-shirt.

"Where's Dad's journal?"

Sam pulled it out of his bag and threw it to his brother, turning back to the screen. "The funny thing is, Twist was doing some recce on the place, because the original pack was using it as his base, and he swears that not all the guys in these groups are skinwalkers."

"So what are they?" Dean looked up from the journal.

"Just ordinary guys, he thinks." Sam shook his head. "They seem to think it's just a regular thing, unarmed-hand-to-hand fighting for money."

"Huh." Dean looked at his father's entries on skinwalkers, brow furrowing as he read through it. "Nothing in here suggests that a pack is ever more than about twenty of them, at the most."

"Yeah, all our research says the same thing." Sam leaned back in the chair, gesturing at the screen. "But at least half of those dudes are definitely skinwalkers, and from different packs."

"Why would the skinwalkers be running an illegal fight with humans?"

"I don't know." Sam ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back off his face. "Maybe fundraising?"

"Maybe." It didn't strike Dean as much of a way to make money. "Or are they looking for new blood? Testing humans for stronger leaders?"

"Either way, we need to figure out a way to get in there –" He looked up at the sharp rap on the door.

Dean stood up and walked over, opening it. Twist and Garth stood outside, dusted with fine snow.

"Another lot just came into town," Twist said shortly, coming into the room and pulling off his gloves. "Fifteen of them."

Behind him, Garth shivered as he walked into the warm room and looked around. "Any coffee?"

Sam gestured to the pot on the kitchenette's counter. "Help yourself." He looked back at Twist. "Frank find anything on what's going on? Why these creatures are changing their patterns?"

"Couldn't get hold of him." Twist sat down at the table and pulled a bottle from the deep pocket of his coat. "Garth, grab us some glasses while you're there."

"Well, we still have over a hundred of these things to kill." Dean pulled out a chair and sat down next to Sam at the table. "We've got silver bullets and the knives, and we can get some of them long-range, but not all."

Garth plunked three glasses down on the table and drew out the fourth chair, sitting down and curling his hands around the cup of hot coffee. "Not all of those guys in there are skinwalkers."

"Yeah, I told him." Sam picked up the glass that Twist filled. "There's no way to tell which are which, either, which means blowing up the building when they're all inside is out of the question."

"Wouldn't do much good anyway." Twist sniffed, and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. "We need to be in there, need find out what's going on."

"Well …," Garth drew out the word slowly, "There's one way to get in."

Dean looked at him, one brow raised.

"The fight's open to all comers." Garth looked at him. "A couple of us could go in and sign up."

Sam snorted, turning back to his brother, expecting to see Dean laughing. He wasn't.

"You're not seriously considering this?" He straightened in the chair abruptly. "One bite, Dean, that's all it takes with these things."

Dean shrugged. "Only when they're in canine form. And they're fighting as humans."

He looked at Garth. "You're out, Garth. You bruise like a friggin' peach." He turned to Twist. "And you, old man. But you're both on rifle duty. From the building across the street."

"Dean! Can I have a word with you?" Sam glanced apologetically at Twist and Garth. "In private?"

They walked outside, Sam closing the door softly behind them. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Give me another solution, Sammy. Any other way to get in close to them, and find out what's going on. I'll take it, with open arms." Dean leaned against the wall, looking at Sam.

"I can't." Sam looked away, across the parking lot that had been dusted with snow. "Doesn't make this the right choice."

"Maybe not. But it's the only game in town."

"We should wait, call in help." Sam turned back to him. "With more of us, we could take them down without having to risk it."

"How long till that pack's two hundred, Sam? Their Alpha had plans to turn hundreds in one night. Maybe that plan went by the wayside over the last few years, but he seems to have a new one. You know how fast two hundred skinwalkers would take this city? Or any city?"

Sam stood silently, looking at him.

"Sam, so long as they stay in human form, we're okay. And if they change, Twist and Garth'll have their targets, no danger to the people who are in there." Dean shrugged. "I'm not crazy about it, alright? But I don't think we've got a choice. We don't even know how long they'll be here, or if this is happening in other places. We need some intel."

* * *

_**Willamette Valley, Oregon**_

Trish looked down at her plate, and sighed. "I miss Sam."

Ellie smiled. "He'll be back in a couple of days, and you'll be complaining about how he never picks up his clothes, or how he kept you up till three with his snoring."

The other woman nodded. "I know, I know, I'm high maintenance." She looked up, her mouth twisting into a half-smile. "But I miss him when he's not here. Don't you miss Dean?"

"So much that I bury myself in files that make no sense until he gets back." Ellie gestured at the pile of work sitting at the other end of the table. "At least it makes the time go faster."

She stood up, picking up her plate and walking around to get Trish's as well. "Why don't you and the kids bunk in here until he gets home, Trish?"

"I don't want to stop you from working, Ellie." She glanced at the pile. Ellie made a face.

"I've gleaned everything out of those that I can until Frank gets the new data. If you don't stay, I'll just go over them again and give myself a brain tumour."

Trish smiled uncertainly. "You sure?"

"Yeah, the kids'll have fun, and we can eat ice-cream and mope, okay?"

"Somehow I just can't see you doing that."

"I can learn. How hard can it be?" She smiled and carried the dishes to the kitchen. The house seemed barely large enough when he was in it. When he wasn't, it was way too big for just the three of them. And she was acutely aware that they were isolated up here at the moment. Tamsin had taken the baby and gone to see her folks while Garth was hunting. Talya had gone with Baraquiel and the others to meet Cas down in California. Frank was gone. Twist was gone. And Dwight and Katherine had left yesterday as well.

_No one up here but us chickens_, she thought with a tiny frisson of unease. Dean and Sam were a full day's drive away. If anything did happen … but of course, nothing would. It wasn't the first time she and Trish had been the only ones on the road. Nothing had happened then; nothing was going to happen now. Unless they overdosed on ice-cream.

She pulled out the Dutch chocolate from the freezer and spooned a reasonable amount for moping into each bowl. The kids had gone to bed hours ago; even Adrienne would sleep until about three, tucked into Rosie's cradle in the guest bedroom. They could pig out and mope for a bit and get an early night.

Trish had moved to the living room, and Ellie handed her a bowl with a grin, putting her own down and going to the fire to add a few more logs. She was turning back when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey." Dean's voice was soft on the other end of the line, and she pressed the handset closer to her ear.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"Just wanted to hear your voice." He sighed.

"Dean? What's going on?" Ellie heard her voice sharpen slightly. He didn't call home when he was working, not unless something was getting him down, or he needed her to find out something. It was easier not talking when they were apart, easier not to think too much about the other.

"We found the pack, Ellie," he said, and she heard a murmur of voices in the background. "Over a hundred of them, several smaller packs coming together."

She was silent, thinking of the files that Frank and Dwight had brought. "Their Alpha is still alive, isn't he?"

"I think so. I don't know how many Crowley got hold of."

"Frank had some reports of monster populations getting bigger right around the country, Dean."

"What? How?" She could hear him gathering his thoughts, shunting away whatever had driven him to call.

"Not sure yet. Not all the data is available." She bit her lip. "What are you going to do about the skinwalkers?"

"They're, uh, running something here. It gives us a way to get in close," he said vaguely.

"Close? How close?"

"We'll be fine," he said, with more conviction in his voice. "Are you guys okay?"

"Yes, we're okay. Dean –"

"I gotta go, we're heading in." He hesitated for a moment. "I'll call, as soon as it's over."

"Be careful."

"I love you, Ellie. Tell John and Rosie too." The line was cut off and Ellie stared at the handset in her hand.

He was going to do something reckless; she thought furiously, something that would be putting him well and truly into harm's way. She resisted the impulse to throw the damned thing across the room. Sam would look out for him, she told herself. And Twist and Garth, they would have his back and they wouldn't let him fall. But she ached to be there, stopping him, or protecting him, or doing something, anything other than standing in the middle of the hall staring at the walls helplessly.

* * *

_**Billings, Montana**_

"This is a dumb idea," Sam hissed at Dean as they walked along the dark road toward the building. "I want that on the record."

"Noted."

He walked across the concrete apron to the postern door, and banged on it. The man who opened it was huge, barely letting any light from the room behind him spill through.

"Who're you?" His voice was rough, more throat injury than anything else, Sam thought, staring up at him.

"Heard there was some money to be made here. Thought we'd come and see." Dean's voice had deepened slightly.

"New blood!" The giant bellowed over his shoulder. "Come on in then."

He stepped aside and they walked past him, toward the jostling, seething crowd of men in the centre of the room. The giant walked beside Sam. "Hamish."

Sam took the offered hand, his own swallowed by it. Hamish had a couple of inches on him, and nearly a foot across the shoulders. The man moved lightly, his bulk muscle, not fat.

"Clay! New blood here." He roared over the shouting of the crowd. A man turned to look at him, and nodded, walking out through the crowd, the men in the way pushing against each other to make room for him to pass.

"You two looking to make some money, yeah?" Clay stood in front of them, eyes running over them with interest. He was around Dean's height, the overhead light gleaming on slick, long black hair, on the sweat that coated his upper body, showing the sharp curves and planes of the muscles under the skin. "I'm Clay. I run the fights. Entry fee's twenty-five."

Dean felt Sam glance at him, and shrugged, pulling out his wallet. He pulled the twenty and a five and handed them to the other man. He pocketed the money and turned toward the circle.

"The rules are – there are no rules. No shirts, no shoes. Bare hands. You can do anything you like in there, but the fight stops when your man goes down. Might not be Marquis of Queensbury, but we do have some standards." He glanced back at them. "Ya getting this, lads?"

Dean's face twisted slightly. "Yeah, we're listening."

"Good. You can challenge anyone. Anyone can challenge you. You win, all the bets against you goes to you. You lose; it all goes to the other man. Clear?"

Sam nodded. "You don't sound local?"

Clay turned back to him fast, a shark-like grin stretching his face. "Ask me no questions, boy, an' I'll tell you no lies." He turned back to the circle, gesturing expansively. "We don't care about your past, what you've done or haven't done. In here, it's only about what you can do now."

He yelled at the men in front of him, and they parted, Dean and Sam following him through to the front edge of the open circle. He turned and looked at Dean speculatively. "You ready?"

Dean's brows rose. "Now?"

"Ya, now. New blood fights first."

In the centre of the circle, a man stood, six foot two to three inches, somewhere between two-twenty and two-fifty pounds, blood trickling from a cut over his eye and bruises blooming down his side. He grinned at Dean, several teeth missing from his smile.

Sam looked at him and took Dean's jacket, shirts and shoes. Clay looked him over, and shook his head. "No jewellery. Leave it with your friend."

Dean pulled off his wedding ring and watch, handing them to Sam. "See you in five."

He turned and walked into the circle.

* * *

_**Willamette Valley, Oregon**_

Trish set the bowl down on the table and looked at Ellie. "That sounds weird. Do you think he picked up something about the man?"

"I don't know." Ellie shook her head, tucking her legs under her as she shifted into the corner of the sofa. "He's been fine for the last two days, not a murmur about it, so maybe it was just the stranger thing, just not being used to a new teacher."

"Would he hide it, if he did feel scared but thought that maybe you didn't believe him?"

Ellie frowned. "He knows we believe him. He doesn't lie or make things up."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Trish shrugged. "This is all stuff I've got to get through in the fall. I just meant, if he thought that he wasn't being … I don't know … brave? Brave enough to handle it on his own?"

Ellie put her bowl down on the table. "I didn't think of that. Maybe. I guess."

"He's just got pretty strong role models, you know?" Trish looked at her. "And kids do absorb that kind of thing."

"Yeah."

She unfolded herself from the corner, picking up her bowl and Trish's. "I'll get the dishwasher going. Do you want anything else?"

"No, thanks. I'm good." Trish stretched out, and got up, going to the fire as Ellie went into the kitchen. She put another couple of logs on, stirring the embers under them and watched them catch.

It did feel better to be here, the children safely sleeping upstairs, someone to talk to. The small, sharp beep caught her attention immediately and she looked around the room, looking for what had caused it. On a small panel beside the doorway to the hall, a small red light was flashing.

"Ellie?" Trish walked down to the kitchen, glancing back over her shoulder at the light.

"Almost done here." Ellie pushed the tray in and closed the door, looking up as she twisted the knob for the overnight cycle.

"There's a red light flashing in your living room."

Ellie straightened up and walked past her, speeding up slightly as she walked down the hall. The panel on the side of the door was an alarm system. She looked at the light for a moment, then turned abruptly, heading for the basement door in the hallway.

"What is it?" Trish caught up her, long legs swinging.

"Perimeter alarm." Ellie said shortly, opening the basement door and flipping on the lights, hurrying down the stairs. "Something's come over the wall."

* * *

_**Billings, Montana**_

Dean circled his opponent warily. The guy was tired, a little punchy from the previous fight. Still big and still had the wild light of adrenalin-pumped fire in his eyes. He felt for the grip beneath his bare feet, the concrete floor slightly rough, stretched his senses outward, feeling where the crowd of men made up the boundary of the arena he could use.

"You gonna dance all night, or you gonna fight?" Blondie grinned at him, showing the gap-toothed smile again.

"Whenever you're ready," Dean said, turning toward him with a long stride. He felt the breeze of the other man's fist pass by his face, head snapping to one side, and twisted his body into the punch, his knuckles slamming into ribs, his weight behind them. Blondie staggered back, an unaimed hook sweeping around and grazing Dean's jaw.

He wasn't sure if he should be dragging this out or not. He decided not. Blondie didn't have that much left, and there were more important things to do.

Sam watched his brother moving faster under the bright white lights, recognising the decision to just get in and finish it. The other man was a bit taller, a bit heavier, but he was tired, and not as fit, he thought, not nearly as well-trained. He saw Dean sway, barely moving as the guy's fist sailed past his side, muscles flexing over shoulders and back as Dean turned and his elbow shot out, hitting the point of the jaw precisely, the blond man's eyes rolling back in their sockets as he dropped bonelessly to the floor.

"Good fight." Clay stepped into the open circle as Dean stepped back. "Nicely warmed up now?"

Dean looked at him warily. "You could say that."

Clay grinned his shark grin at him. "You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did ya?"

He turned around as the crowd parted behind him, and another man walked out into the circle. "This is Terence, bit more of a challenge for you."

Terence stopped beside Clay, small dark eyes glinting under a heavy brow. Dean looked up. Somewhere around Sam's height, the man's body was enormous, a barrel chest and big gut, muscle bulging out over every surface. He was already sweating, the oily gleam reflecting in the bright light.

_Come on_, Dean thought furiously, glancing at Sam. His brother's eyes were narrowed, already looking for weaknesses in Dean's opponent. He looked back at Terence as Clay stepped out of the circle, and the big man rushed toward him, surprisingly fast for all that weight.

Sam watched Dean fade back, just out of the taller man's reach, moving around in a circle without the need to see where he was going. He had a couple of options. Wear him out, which wasn't a certainty; or go in and test him. He knew which his brother would choose, and was unsurprised when a second later, Dean stopped moving and drove through the other man's guard, the hard outer edge of his foot slamming into the side of Terence's knee, the uppercut cracking against the underside of the jaw. Terence rode the blow to the knee, shifting his weight off the leg as Dean made contact, and turned his jaw at the last second, Dean's hand coming off worse as it hit solid bone, skin split over the knuckles.

The return blow was almost too fast to see, a straight jab that snapped Dean's head back and cut the skin over his cheekbone. He reeled back, recovering his balance and moving backward, shaking his head and sending a spatter of blood into the crowd.

Sam watched him revising his opinion of Terence, moving warily now just out of reach. Terence's mouth was stretched into a smile.

"Weren't expecting that, boy?"

He moved in fast, and Sam winced as he saw the huge fist hit Dean in the side, just under the ribs, the blow only half-ridden, his brother dropping to one knee and scrambling to his feet again as he shifted back out of range.

He was distantly aware of the roar of the men surrounding the fight, a continuous thunder of encouragement and derision and mad, adrenalin-fuelled bloodlust. His concentration narrowed to a pinpoint focus on his brother and the tactics he'd have to use to beat his opponent, who was bigger and stronger, possibly faster and not nearly as dumb as he looked.

Sam watched Dean's forearms come up as Terence closed with him, and fist and elbow slammed into them. One fist broke through, hitting his brother under the eye, and Sam felt a horrifying flash of memory break through – _Dean's face, swollen and bloody, one eye shut and the other barely open, looking up at him, as his own fist struck that same eye socket, under the eye, and his brother's head had smacked back into the Impala's windshield_ – he shut it away, forced it down and dragged his attention back to the fight in front of him.

Dean fell away from the blow, hitting the concrete floor on his shoulders, and sprang back up, much closer than Terence had reckoned on. The first blow took the bigger man in the solar plexus, the second smashed into the temple, the third, on the first part of a hard, tight turn, drove his elbow into ribs, knocking Terence to the ground.

Looking down at him, Dean spat out a mouthful of blood, and wiped his face. Sweat and blood were mingled over his palm, and he wiped his hand dry on his jeans, backing away as Terence rolled to his feet, much more slowly now.

_Sonofabitch was big and fast and knew how to use his weight and speed_, he thought, shaking his head slightly, feeling his eye swelling. He watched him rise, and waited, breathing deeply, shutting out every thought but what he needed to do next. He saw the punch coming for him, saw the next one telegraphed in the man's stance, and shifted sideways, balanced on one foot, weight and power one force behind the fist that flicked out, hitting Terence beneath the shoulder blade, feeling the ribs crack under his knuckles. He was already moving as the other man turned around, face screwed up in a rictus of pain as his rib cage flexed sickeningly. Another blow whistled toward him and Dean moved his head, letting it go by, hands clamping around the arm as it came past him, yanking downward in unison with the forward motion already present, his knee exploding against the ribs on the same side of the body, this time at the front, and feeling that crack again, this time hearing the strangled scream that burst out with it.

They stood facing each other, both breathing hard now, slick with sweat under the lights, raw red scrapes on their skin, cuts still trickling blood. Dean's eyes were dark, one already swelling slightly, blocking some of his vision. He could feel the sting of the air against the open splits over his knuckles as he closed his fingers, and he watched Terence take a step toward him, listing to one side as the ends of his ribs shifted inside and scraped along the lungs.

Skinwalker or human, he wondered? Terence's mouth stretched out and he caught the wink of a long canine behind the bloody lips. He stepped into the man's blow, sweeping it aside and drove his fist into Terence's mouth, feeling the sharp cut of the dog teeth in there, seeing an explosion of blood as the lips were mashed back against the jaws. A red flare in the dark eyes, deep set under the heavy brow. Gagging as the carnivore's breath hit his face. Ringing in his ear as a blow landed on the side of his head. All of his weight behind the fist that struck the throat, feeling the cartilage bending and then breaking under the blow, windpipe crushed. Watching as the body of the man fell backwards away from him, to the ground, and the sudden deep silence of the room as the crowd took in the death.

* * *

_**Willamette Valley, Oregon**_

Ellie bent over the security camera screens, her gaze flicking from one to the next. Beside her, Trish was looking as well, for the flicker of movement, for the intruder. They saw the man at the same time, and Trish heard Ellie's breath suck in sharply.

The long-limbed figure slipping out from the oak near the wall was unmistakable.

_Bastard_, Ellie thought, leaning closer to watch him approaching the garden. She felt a flash of guilt, not trusting her son's instincts, and shunted it away. She would deal with that after.

She was starting to straighten up, to get her gun and deal with the teacher, when he stopped at the invisible boundary of the _zona magnetica_, her eyes narrowing as she watched him pace along the edge of the line of buried talismans. The boundaries in the garden kept out many creatures and non-corporeal entities. The man approached the camera as the moon broke free of the thin cloud and the light caught his face clearly.

Ellie heard Trish's inhale whistle between her teeth. The eyes of the man were black. A flat black from corner to corner, no trace of the white to be seen.

Demon.

"Come on, we'll get the kids down to the panic room." Ellie turned away from the screens, and grabbed Trish' wrist. "He won't be able to cross the zones, but I'd rather have everyone safe."

They woke John and Rosie, and Marc and Laura and took them downstairs to the basement. The panic room had been built at the far end of the basement, against the bedrock of the mountain. Doubled iron walls, packed with salt and talismans and herbs and graveyard dirt, acid-etched with angel and demon proofing, it was the most formidable barrier they'd been able to come up with against any kind of supernatural incursion. A single cot sat in the middle of the room, and several iron-framed bunk beds lined half the walls, the others hidden behind shelving and weapons racks.

Ellie returned upstairs and carried Adrienne's cradle downstairs, setting it close by the beds. She was thinking of the protection around the house, the zones and the defences that she and Dean had laid out and fortified over the last three years. The first line, the talisman wall, had been breached. That wasn't so surprising, really, the last two storms could have brought down sections of the wall, leaving it still effective against the non-corporeal but not against something in a body. The next line was the _zona magnetica_. Buried objects of psychic power, chained together with silver and iron wire. That one the demon couldn't breach, not on its own. It wouldn't be able to go near the talismans or touch the wire. Beyond that the lines of mandragora and reflections, and then the iron railway line that surrounded the house and outbuildings. None of those were in any danger of being broken.

_What the hell was a demon doing here, anyway?_ The thought nagged at her. She hadn't been conscious when Michael had bound and chained Asmodeus but she'd heard from both Dean and Castiel how thorough that binding had been. The gates to Hell had been sealed for a little over a year now. Michael had sworn that no demon could escape through the cracks and fractures that were all that remained open.

_Well_, she thought, _one obviously had_. The more unsettling thought hovered behind the how. Why. _Why would a demon come here?_

Trish looked at her as they tucked the children into the cots. "What is going on?"

"My thought, exactly" Ellie murmured. They retreated to the other side of the room.

"I want you to stay here, with them." She glanced at the beds. "I'm going upstairs; I'll try to call Dean and Sam from there."

Trish' brows drew down in a frown. "I don't like you being on your own, Ellie."

She shrugged. "There's no reception here, too much interference and we're too deep." She turned away, going to the weapon rack and taking down a shotgun. "I need to try Frank as well, get him to hook in to the defence satellites and try and find where this demon came from."

Frank had discovered last year that the gates – or the entire plane of Hell, they weren't sure which – emitted a particular frequency of light that could be picked up by the satellites that were looking for weapons signatures. The DOD apparently ignored that frequency, since it didn't match up with what they were looking for, but Frank had zeroed in on it straight away, matching up every emission with a known location for a gate. And in the process they'd discovered a lot of the unknown locations as well.

She loaded the gun and put another dozen shells into the pocket of her jacket. Her knife, a long, slender blade with the ability to kill a demon inside of the vessel it rode, was in the study upstairs. She looked at Trish.

"Once I'm out, I won't be back, Trish. Not until it's over, do you understand?"

Trish nodded. Ellie wore charms against possession and the house was protected, but if anything did happen, it would be too risky to let her back into this safe room.

"Sit tight, keep the door locked. The worst case scenario, you might be in here for a couple of days. There's food, water. Just stay put and protect them." Her gaze flicked to the beds again.

She turned away and opened the door, closing it behind her and waiting beside it until she heard Trish close the ring-locks and the clunks of the tenons shooting into the mortises in the iron walls. Then she crossed the library to the server room and sat down at a terminal, sending an email with instructions to Frank, and another to Dwight. She picked up the phone, and dialled Dean's cell number, her mouth twisting slightly as the line switched to voicemail one ring later.

"_Paranormal Investigations and Eliminations. Leave your name and number after the beep."_

"Dean, we've got trouble. Come home as soon as you can." She hung up the phone and picked up the gun, her eyes scanning the security cameras again. The teacher was crouched by the rose trellis, head turned to the road. She looked at the screen showing the drive, frowning as she saw headlights outlining the wrought iron gates there.

* * *

_**Billings, Montana**_

The silence was broken by a small cracking sound, and the smaller impact thud of a high calibre bullet hitting Hamish in the back of the head. Dean spun around, seeing a flicker of long snout, lips drawn back from pointed fangs, then it vanished as the man dropped to the floor, the exit wound in the side of his head enormous, blood and bone and brain spattered across the men who'd been standing next to him.

In that second, the room exploded.

They'd been right on the numbers. Slightly more than half of the men there transformed instantly, dropping to all fours, muscles contracting as they leapt for the chests and throats of the shocked and confused humans around them.

"Dean!" Sam's shout rose over the baying, growling, howling, snarling canine noise and Dean's hand flashed out as his brother threw his automatic to him, his fingers flicking the safety and firing at the animals that surged around him without thought or conscious volition. He was turning, going to Sam when the Rottweiler hit him in the back, bringing him down in a short painful slide across the rough concrete floor, its hot breath on the back of his neck. He heard the distinctive boom of Sam's Taurus, and the weight was off him, the dog's head blown apart by the bullet, the shape pulling back into human form, Clay's grey eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Scrambling to his feet, he was firing continuously, remotely aware that Twist and Garth were picking off the dogs on the outer edges of the milling mob, the big bullets leaving little of the dog, and gaping holes as the creatures returned to human form. The mag ran out and he shoved the gun into the back of his jeans, leg flashing out in a side kick, knocking the German Shepherd that had leapt at him to one side, the animal yelping as its broken ribs pierced its lungs when it hit the ground.

_One bite. Just one bite_. The thought ticked like a metronome in his head as he fought his way to Sam's side, the two of them moving fluidly together, back to back, as they retreated down the long space towards the door. Sam passed him another magazine, and he pulled the gun out, ejecting the empty and slamming the full one in, hand jerking up automatically when the wolfhound filled his field of vision.

The men in the building had scattered across the warehouse floor, some fighting the dogs, others lying still, the deep bites marks clearly visible on their bodies, throats torn out, necks broken, blood pooling over the concrete floor. The steady rifle fire from the building across the street was picking off the dogs that remained, dropping each in a subdued explosion of blood and fur.

Against the wall, Dean took another magazine from Sam, reloading the automatic, and racking the slide. The building only had one way in or out, and they stood by the postern door, gun barrels tracking the dogs around the area, muzzle flash and boom simultaneous as they dropped the animals.

"So much for intel," Dean said tiredly, looking around. None had gotten out, and Twist had put down two men who'd been bitten and left alive. The remaining men were crowded close by, staring at them, their faces and eyes filled with trauma and terror.

Sam nodded, sliding the Taurus back into his pocket and turning to the men.

"Tell the police it was a gang fight," he said quietly, and they nodded, looking uneasily at the bodies that littered the floor around them. "You didn't see the other gang."

He turned and opened the door, gesturing outside, and the first hurried through, not looking at him, not looking anywhere but at the ground as they sped up, away from the smell of blood and sweat and dog.

Dean picked up his t-shirt, wiping the sweat and blood from his face, and dragging it on over his head. He pulled on his shirt, and shrugged into his jacket, tucking the Colt auto in the pocket and leaning against the wall to pull on his boots. He jumped as the phone in his jacket beeped once.

Sam moved quickly across the floor, checking bodies and doing a count. Seventy-eight of the men had been skinwalkers, the edges of the bullet wounds crumbling and black where the silver had penetrated. Another thirty men lay on the floor, unequivocally killed by animal attack. He shook his head slightly as he looked around. What was the Alpha's plan? Why had the packs joined together?

He had no doubt that they would face this situation again, probably in the not-too-distant future. They would come better prepared next time, he thought, more snipers, figure a way to trap the creatures so that they could question at least some of them.

"Sam!"

He looked up, moving instantly as he saw Dean's face, dead white under the blood and bruises. "What?"

"Something's happening at home." Dean was running through the door, waving at Twist and Garth. "Ellie called and I can't get a response at the house."

* * *

_**Willamette Valley, Oregon**_

Leaning the shotgun against the wall, Ellie opened the door as Bob bounded up the steps. She smiled at him as her gaze cut from side to side, scanning the dark garden.

"Hey Ellie, just dropping back those books we borrowed. We're heading out tomorrow and Kay wouldn't dream of leaving it till we got back." Bob Gunner lived down the near the end of their road, the only non-hunter in the neighbourhood. She liked the couple, and they'd been around a few times, Kay's love of reading had been an easy bond.

Ellie took the proffered books. "You didn't need to worry about it, Bob. Not like I'm lacking for reading material."

He laughed. "That's what I told her, but she insisted."

"Well, you two have a good trip; I'll see you when you get back." She stepped back, tucking the books against her as her hand went to the door.

"Thanks. That's a definite." He turned away, bounding the steps with the same exuberance and hurried to his car. She watched him get in, the door closing as the engine started, and pull out of the turnaround, following the narrow drive back to the gate.

Closing the door, she set the books on the hall table and picked up the gun, walking through the house to the back. Dean would kill her if she took a risk and went out to confront the demon, she thought. But they couldn't just sit here, not knowing how it had gotten out, not knowing why it had targeted them.

She walked into the kitchen, slipping out through the back door and standing in the shadows of the porch. There was a stretch of flat ground, behind the garage, where Frank used to park the Airstream. If she was careful, she could draw out a devil's trap there, it lay beyond the house's protection zones. Lead it in and trap it and get the answers they needed.

She turned abruptly, back into the house and went to get what she would need.

* * *

_**I-90W, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho**_

The black car sped through the night, the sodium lights on the interstate barely leaving orange flickers over the glossy black metal as it raced under them. Inside the car, the silence was deep, underlaid by the noise of the engine and the tyres. Both men had powerful imaginations, and their memories gave vivid substance to their imaginings, adding colour and depth to the worst case scenarios that filled their minds.

_The house was supposed to be safe. It had been safe. It was supposed to be protected._ The thoughts churned through Dean's mind, his fingers curled tightly around the wheel, the speedometer sitting on eighty steadily as he drove north and west. _She'd said trouble, but the house was supposed to be safe, so what kind of trouble?_

Sam looked through the windshield, his gaze fixed and unmoving, not registering the road unfurling ahead of them, lit and delineated by the headlights. He'd spent the last three hours trying to get hold of anyone. No one answered at either his place or Dean's, the lines were fine, there was just no one answering the calls. Ellie's cell went to voicemail. So did Trish's. And Frank's. No answer at Baraquiel's house. He'd gotten through to Dwight and Katherine, but they were in Mississippi. The lack of information ate at him, making it harder to suppress the images his mind kept wanting to throw at him, of burning and bleeding, of aching loss and a quiet grave in a small town. He couldn't lose them, couldn't lose love again. He would fucking die if it happened again.

"Dean, go faster."

Dean said nothing, watching the lights of the town dim and dwindle behind them. He put his foot down hard. Sam watched the speedometer climbing, and looked back through the windshield.

* * *

_**Willamette Valley, Oregon**_

Ellie crouched beside the garage, listening in the darkness. The wind had died, and the night air was still and icy, the garden murky, shapes blurred and indistinct with no moon and the stars hidden by cloud.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are …"

The voice was Mackleson's, Ellie thought, but the syntax and timbre were wrong, the teacher's tenor forced deeper, a burr around the edges marking an accent. A familiarity tugged at her, scratching at her memories.

"Come and play, Eleanor …" the voice had moved, it was to her right now, as soft as a whisper. "Michael says to say hi."

She closed her eyes. She'd killed the last demon who'd known of that connection. And the voice was still strangely familiar.

A rustle in the grass on her one o'clock. She rose silently and moved around the garage, stopping at the corner.

"Ellie, don't tell me you've forgotten me." The voice had moved to her two o'clock.

And she knew who it was.

She stepped out from behind the garage, crossing the iron railing buried deep in the ground and looked at the gangly teacher standing thirty feet from her.

"I remember you, Michael."

Mackleson's face split in a wide grin, looking oddly vulnerable without his glasses, lost somewhere in the garden, she supposed.

"I knew you would, eventually," he said, walking a little closer. "Did I ever mention that time goes faster in Hell, Ellie?"

She nodded, taking a step toward him. "How did you get out?"

"As it turns out, I'm one of the few who can cross out of Devil's Gate. Thought you would have thought of that."

"The archangel said that all the gates were sealed."

The demon snorted. "And you believed that? Knowing what you know? I am surprised at you, _cara mia_."

The old endearment made her flinch, and she took another step toward him to hide the involuntary movement. "Why are you here, Michael?"

"Ah, Ellie, you have involved yourself with the world's most wanted. There's quite a bounty on the Winchester children, didn't you know? And on the Winchesters, for that matter." He was looking straight at her, the vessel's pale brown eyes gleaming in the darkness. "But I guess your angel friends didn't mention that either."

She frowned at him. "No, they didn't. What's so important about them?"

"I don't know, cara." He took another step, and she knew without having to look that he was a step away from the trap she'd laid. "I'm not really what you would call a player in this game, just a little pawn, pushing here, shoving there, no one tells me why."

"That's such a lot of bullshit, Michael."

He laughed, and stepped forward. "I missed you so much down there, Ellie –"

He looked down and back up at her, shock on his face.

"You were a good teacher, Michael," Ellie said softly, walking to the edge of the trap. "Do you want to go back down?"

Mackleson's face twisted. "No, no, don't – I'm begging you, Ellie, don't."

"Why are the children so important? And to whom?"

He shook his head, sinking to his knees. "The nephilim, Ellie."

She looked down at him, the small crease appearing between her brows. "The Others were killed, years ago."

"Not all of them." He looked up at her, hands resting palm upwards on his legs. "Not the most powerful."

She knew who he was talking about. The first borns had been the most powerful, and there were seven of them. Or there had been.

"Why? What do they want with the Winchesters?"

"I don't know. I really don't." His face was sincere, but he was a demon.

"Demons lie, Michael."

"We do, we do, there's no doubt about it," he agreed. "But would I have left your child alone, would I have come up here, knowing that I couldn't get in, that you would have wound protection upon protection around your home, if I hadn't wanted to see you, to talk to you – to give you warning?"

"Is that why you're here?" She looked at his hands, unwilling to meet his eyes. "For old time's sake?"

"Will you believe me if I say yes?"

"No."

"Then no." He shrugged and stood up, forcing to her to look up at him again, his face shadowed. "I came because you are the only one who can end this for me. And that's the price for the warning, for the information."

She frowned at him. "End it for you?"

"You carry a knife that kills demons, Ellie. Not sent back to Hell but dead. And free."

She felt the weight of it suddenly, on her belt. "You want me to kill you?"

"Rather than return to the pit, yes." He turned away, dragging in a deep breath. "I've been there for over a thousand years, in Hell's time, Ellie. Time and more than enough time to become corrupted, to become evil. And I am. Both corrupted and evil."

"So why should I believe anything you tell me?" She looked at his throat.

"Because I have nothing left to lose." He shrugged slightly. "I can't tell you why your man and children are so important to the half-breeds, Ellie. I can tell you that they are searched for, that they are in danger. That's all. And I'm – I'm begging you to let me be free of Hell in return."

"Mackleson will also die if I kill you, Michael." She rested her hand on the hilt of the knife. "He's innocent."

"Not if it's self-defence," he said softly. "You owe me this much, cara. You put me down there."

She looked at him, feeling what he'd become, her heart aching at his words. It was true. She had. And she had a debt to repay. She stepped into the trap.

* * *

_**I-84, Oregon**_

Dean swerved, his hands almost sliding off the wheel as the prickling sensation at the back of his neck that had been with him since Billings became a burning sensation, acid eating into him, sending bolts of pain into his skull.

"What?" Sam braced himself against the door, looking at his brother's hunched up position, screwed up face.

"God, something wrong," Dean ground out. "So fucking wrong."

"What?!" Sam leaned across the seat, taking the wheel and straightening out the car, as Dean's hands flew to his neck, his head rolling back, eyes tightly shut.

"I don't know!" The pain was agonising, burning like lye through his skin, into his nerves. "Fuck!"

"Switch." Sam was already moving across the seat, holding himself up with the wheel, his foot knocking Dean's off the accelerator as his brother shifted along awkwardly under him, curling up with his hands pressing hard against the base of his skull as Sam returned to the car to the lane, their speed to a hundred miles per hour.

They'd passed through Kennewick an hour ago, and Dean had dropped onto the 84 at Hermiston. They'd be turning off soon, highway 97 taking them the rest of the way home, just a couple more hours. He looked at Dean.

"A couple more hours, man. Hold on, alright?"

His brother groaned. "This is happening right fucking now, Sam. We're gonna be too late."

* * *

_**Willamette Valley, Oregon**_

The school teacher's fingers were long and stronger than she'd suspected, curling around her throat and encircling it easily. The knife was in her hand, but her strength was vanishing, sucked away by the lack of oxygen, the lack of blood to her brain, her vision narrowing as the demon tightened his grip on her.

_The only way to survive a fight is to forget about your own death, Ellie._ Michael's voice spoke in her mind, from a long time ago. _Put it aside and focus on what you must do to win. Death is nothing, barely a doorway to a new level of experience. Do not fear it. Do not acknowledge it. Do not think about it. Do what you must do._

Her fingers closed hard around the hilt of the slim blade and she straightened up against his strength, her left hand holding the blade, as she drove up with her right, cupped underneath it, the blade slipping with surprising ease through the ribs and into the heart.

The fingers around her throat sprang open and she dragged in the cold night air, turning her face to one side as the body in front of her lit up in a thousand shades of red and gold, coruscating fiercely, the demon inside dying finally.

Mackleson's body dropped to the ground and Ellie swayed above it for a long moment, then crumpled beside it, the knife dropping from her fingers as her hand hit the grass.

* * *

Sam spun the wheel as they came through the gateway with the first paling of the eastern sky. He was out of the car almost before he'd stopped it, the engine stalling and dying unnoticed, his long legs taking the porch steps four at a time. The front door was closed and he hit it with his boot sole and all of his weight, the lock shuddering and breaking free of the jamb, the door slamming back against the wall.

"Trish! Trish!" He ran through the house, bellowing her name, racing up the stairs to see the slept-in beds empty, feeling his heart hollowing out with fear, spinning around and leaping down the stairs. He almost overshot the door to the basement, feet skidding out from under him as he gripped the knob and yanked it open, stuttering down the stairs and regaining his balance at the bottom.

"Trish!"

The sounds of the panic room door being unlocked, the clunking of the ring-locks being released made him veer for the end of the library, and he reached the door just as his wife threw it open.

"Okay, hey, okay." He didn't know what he was saying, his arms wrapping around her, feeling hers tighten against his ribs, his face buried in her soft hair.

Behind him, Dean came across the library slowly, face still white, looking past them into the room.

"Where's Ellie?"

Trish lifted her head and looked at him, heart sinking. "She went out, to try and trap the demon in the garden."

"How long?" He looked at her as if she were a stranger, his eyes flat.

"Four or five hours ago now."

Without another word, he turned back and crossed the room, heading up the stairs. Sam looked down at Trish, his hands cupping her face, then looked past her, seeing the small shapes beneath the bunk bed blankets. "Stay here. I'll be back soon."

She nodded and watched him as he ran after his brother.

* * *

They found her behind the garage, the trap easy to see in the growing dawn light, sprawled next to the kindergarten teacher's body. Her clothes were wet from the dew, and her skin was cold when Dean dropped to his knees beside her, but beneath the swollen and bruised flesh, they could both see the pulse that beat steadily in the hollow between her collarbones. She opened her eyes as Dean slid his arm under her shoulders, lifting her off the grass.

He looked into them, then down at the bruises that encircled her neck.

Sam picked up the knife, wiping it clean on the grass and handing it back to her. She straightened a little, taking her weight off Dean's arm and he stood up, his hand extended to pull her to her feet. His grip was hard, and she could see the tension that radiated from him, fear held in check, the injuries on his face.

"I'm okay," she said softly, walking beside him as he turned back to the house. Sam looked down at the teacher, at the small wound that was almost bloodless in the centre of his chest, then turned to follow them.

* * *

Ellie stood beside the bed, easing her jacket off and tossing it onto the blanket box. She heard soft footfalls behind her and turned around. Dean stood there, rigidly still. She looked into his eyes, seeing everything he'd gone through in the last few days, his fury and guilt and pain and fear, watching it build and build into a storm inside of him.

"Are you alright?" His voice was thick and raw.

She nodded, looking away, wondering how to trigger him, how to get him to feel those emotions again, to let them loose, here where it was safe. He was holding himself together with a thread.

"Why?" His eyes were full of shadows. "Why did you go into the trap?"

"It was Michael," she said simply, and saw that that was it.

Dean stared at her for a long moment, then his fingers were on her shirt, closing into fists as he ripped the thin material apart, pulling it from her body. His hands closed around her wrists, wrenching her arms back behind her, holding them together with one hand. He slammed his mouth over hers, kissing her hungrily, desperately, his tongue in her mouth, not giving her time to respond or to breathe, taking what he needed, his free hand pawing over her breasts, squeezing and pinching.

He spun her around and pushed her down, over the edge of the bed, one hand still holding her wrists in a painful vice-grip, the other pulling her jeans down. His blood was thundering in his ears, heart racing as he yanked at his own. Inside his head, he could _smell_ the sweetish stench of blood, _feel_ the power in his body as his fist connected with flesh and bone, adrenalin pumping through him with the memories of the fights. _Michael_. _It had been Michael_. He could feel the agony in his nerves as his instincts had reacted to the danger she'd been in, while they were still hundreds of miles away; could _see_ her lying still in the wet grass, the black bruises in the shapes of fingers around her neck. He wanted to throw his head back and howl with the fury and despair and fear that poured through him, a vortex of uncontrollable emotion that was shaking him apart. _Michael. Michael Furente. It was Michael_.

He knocked her legs apart with his foot, and thrust his fingers into her, feeling her body flex under them, face pushed down into the bedspread. She made a small sound and he growled, fingers digging into her wrists, twisting inside of her. He was rock-hard, iron-hard, and he barely spread her open before he was pushing in, ramming in, a flash of pain at her unreadiness for him, and he was deep inside where it was fiery hot and tight and velvet soft around him. His hips bucked against her hard, each thrust deeper, the howl rising inside, feeling the small bones in her wrists grinding under the tightness of his grip, hearing her soft grunts with every slam of his hips into her, red light behind his closed eyelids, and a wild, fierce pleasure building inside of him, snaking out along his nerves and through his veins. He groaned as his muscles contracted sharply, back arching, balls drawing up, hard and tight as a drum, and the piercingly sharp pleasure hitting him like a wrecking ball as he came violently in her.

The aftershocks shuddered through him, and he slumped over her back, his fingers releasing her arms, feeling her heartbeat slowing under his cheek. For a time, he drifted, his mind and body empty. When he came back to himself, the first thing he heard was her breathing, under him, and memory returned.

His breath caught in his throat as he rolled off her, and she eased her arms back to her sides. He could see the dark red marks over her wrists, marks of his fingers, the indents he'd left in her skin. His stomach heaved when he realised they would match the finger marks around her throat.

"Oh god, did I hurt you?" he whispered, looking at her, his hand hovering over her back, so afraid to touch her now. "Ellie?"

Ellie rolled onto her side, her hair spilling back as she looked at him.

"No, it's okay. You didn't hurt me." She lifted her hand, laying it against the unbruised side of his face gently. She would be stiff and sore in the morning, she thought, but there wasn't any more than that. She knew what he'd felt, the terror and the helplessness, the raw instinctive responses he'd been through in the last few days. The release he'd needed, had craved, had been inevitable. What he'd done would hurt him far more than it had hurt her.

"Dean."

His eyes were closed, and they opened, liquid and bright as he looked at her mouth, swollen and bruised from his kiss. She shifted sideways on the bed, slipping her arm under his neck, wrapping the other around his chest and pulling him toward her. She felt the warm splash of his tears on her collarbone.

"Ssshh … it's okay," she murmured against his temple, pulling him closer.

"Not - okay," he got out raggedly, his arms creeping around her and tightening convulsively. "I-I, _goddammit_ … I _hurt_ you, that …" He couldn't even say it, not yet, he was shivering and his stomach was clenched tight and he _knew_ what he'd done, the memories were close and thick.

She clicked her tongue reprovingly. "Do you think for a moment, that if I'd thought you were really going to hurt me, you wouldn't have been flat on your back on the floor?"

He closed his eyes tightly, fighting to breathe past the bands of steel that compressed his chest, past the lump of feeling that clogged his throat.

"You didn't … enjoy … that," he said, shaking his head, his chest hitching.

"No." She closed her eyes, and sighed. "But you needed it. You needed some way to get those feelings out."

He shook in her arms, great shuddering tremors that rocked through them both, and she held him close to her until the emotions had passed, until the reactions had faded to nothing and his breathing had settled.

* * *

Sam watched Dean covertly. Something had happened, to his brother, between him and Ellie. Dean was treating her as if she'd been broken and carefully repaired and the glue was still setting. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what that something was.

"He said that we were targeted? Me and Sam? And our kids?" Dean frowned, looking down at the files that were still spread over the table. "And the nephilim have something to do with the way the monster population is increasing?"

"He was a demon, so I don't think that was the whole truth, but yeah, that was the gist of it." Ellie ignored the frown, resting her hand lightly against the back of his neck. Sam saw him almost flinch away, then control the impulse, eyes fluttering shut for a second and opening again.

"Frank back?" Sam asked, looking for any way to break the palpable tension in the room.

"Not yet. A few more days, he said." Ellie felt the tension under her fingers and moved away, taking a seat at the table. "Dwight and Katherine should be back next week as well."

She looked back at Dean. "He said something else as well. He said that the angels knew that you were being hunted."

Dean glanced at Sam. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Baraquiel called. He'll be back tomorrow morning. He might know something about this."

"And he might not." Dean leaned back in the chair, looking at her. "We need to figure out a way to check this for ourselves."

"No argument." Ellie glanced at Sam, who nodded. "Where do you want to start?"

"With the gate the demon said he came through."

* * *

**END**


	6. Chapter 6 Have You Really Loved A Woman

**Chapter 6 Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman**

* * *

_To really love a woman, to understand her  
You gotta know her deep inside  
_

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, looking out the kitchen window absently, fingers curled around a cup of coffee. The goddamned song had been on the radio when the alarm went off this morning, and he hadn't been able to get it out of his head. Maybe he didn't want to. He couldn't think about it too deeply, it cut too close to other things he was trying not to think about.

_Hear every thought, see every dream  
An' give her wings when she wants to fly  
_

He'd woken to the song and had twisted around, hand already raised to smack the button that would turn it off, then he'd hesitated as the lyrics filtered in through his sleep-softened defences. Pain and longing and shame had flooded him, and he'd rolled over, letting the song play on, listening to it as if it had been some kind of penance.

When she'd stirred on the other side of the bed, the song had been more than halfway through. She'd turned toward him and every cell, every nerve and muscle and tendon had been thrumming with his desire to hold her close to him, to let his hands smooth over her skin, knowing that she would open her eyes and smile at him and open herself unconditionally to him. He'd frozen there, for countless seconds, listening to the song, wanting so much to follow that desire that he hadn't been able to take a breath, finally turning away, closing his eyes, steadying his breathing, pretending that he hadn't seen, hadn't felt, hadn't wanted.

The song had been long finished when she'd woken, but it had been playing in his head as he'd watched her get up, pull on the pale green robe and walk out of the bedroom, the early morning sun catching the colour of her hair and turning it to fire as she'd passed out of his line of vision.

_Then when you find yourself lyin' helpless in her arms  
you know you really love a woman  
_

He looked down at the cup on the table. He loved her. He really loved her. He couldn't live without her, not for a day, for an hour, or a minute. Everything they'd been through, all their history together had proved that over and over again, undeniable, irrefutable, immutable. He couldn't make that fit with what had happened, what he'd done, but he loved her.

* * *

"What a great picture, John!" Ellie leaned over the table, looking at the drawing John was holding up.

Dean sat across the table from them, and watched her smile, knowing precisely how the dimples deepened to either side of her mouth, as the smile widened, how it would light up her eyes, and crinkle up the corners, how it would fade away incrementally, not just disappear.

Rosie climbed onto his lap, and he looked down at her, one arm curling right around her small body as she squirmed to get the best position.

"John, I draw too." She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket on the bib of her overalls, throwing it across the table at her brother. John snatched it up before it could hit the jammy toast on his plate and opened it up, smoothing it out on the table, looking over it with the critical eye of an older brother.

"Look, Mom, Dad, Rosie's is really good." He held it up and both Ellie and Dean leaned forward to look at the picture. Rosie had drawn a picture of the car, in three-quarter view. Ellie looked at Dean, one brow rising.

He reached out for it. "John, pass that over?"

John held it out to his father, Dean's fingers closing around the edge. The car was proportionate, and in perspective. The entire body was a solid black, but the headlights were unmistakably the Impala's. He set the drawing down on the table, tucking his cheek against his daughter's.

"That's an awesome picture, Rosie. Do you have any more?"

Forty minutes later, he leaned against the edge of the long table, now cleaned up and covered in drawings, both John and Rosie's, spread from one end to the other. Ellie had laid them out in the closest she could come to their chronological order.

From the oldest to the most recent, they looked at the drawings, seeing the jumps in development, from flat, primary-coloured two-dimensional, to the attempts by both children to draw in perspective, sometimes showing the pieces that would normally be hidden, sometimes not. The colours had changed, John used shading to show colour variation and light and shadow; Rosie used different colours and colour mixes to achieve the same thing.

"Are these … normal?" Dean looked at Ellie, not sure if he should be worried or proud.

"Not in line with standard development, but they're not abnormal in terms of what they're drawing. They're just seeing things clearly." Ellie looked at a drawing of Trish. The face was barely sketched in but the wind in her hair was alive, as if the lines on the paper might start moving at any time. She glanced at him.

"I don't know what that means, in terms of our life, what's happening here."

He nodded slowly, his eyes drawn again to one drawing. John had drawn a picture of his mother, sitting at the kitchen table looking down into a cup. The background had been barely suggested, a few lines here and there to indicate the counter and the cupboards, but the room was undeniably their kitchen. He'd caught the exact shade of her hair, using several different reds and yellows and almost blending them to make the distinctive bright copper colour. A few strands had escaped from her braid, and hung forward of her face. And his son had captured a moment of … contemplation, perhaps, or sorrow, in his mother's face.

"John, when did you draw this?" He turned around and lifted the little boy into his arms, pointing at the drawing.

"Um … don't remember." John wriggled, impatient to be put down. He wasn't so keen on being cuddled any more. Dean let him down and looked at the picture for a moment longer, aware of Ellie's gaze on him.

"Should we, uh, take these and show someone?" he asked, straightening up and glancing at her.

"Probably." Ellie nodded. "Sometime. Not yet."

He frowned, seeing the small crease between her brows. "What?"

"I don't know." She didn't look at him, her eyes moving over the pictures, studying them one by one. "Just a feeling that it's not the right time yet."

"Huh." He looked from her profile to the pictures and back. Children who seemed to be art prodigies and Ellie having feelings about it. He wasn't sure which was more disturbing, and he wasn't comfortable with either.

* * *

_When you love a woman  
You tell her that she's really wanted  
_

The training room wasn't a proper dojo. The smooth floors were timber, not matted. They gave relief to the joints with their spring, but if you came down on the boards hard, you got bruised. The building was quite large, set in between the garage and the boundary wall to Baraquiel's house, surrounded by trees, cool and private in the summer, ice cold and uncomfortable in the winter.

Dean watched Ellie and Sam on the floor critically. Despite the eleven-inch height advantage and at least a hundred and forty pound weight advantage his brother had over the woman he faced, Sam wasn't winning. Two scrapes along his ribs showed where Ellie's feet had landed, and he would have a nice shiner in a few hours, courtesy of misjudging her reach and coming in too close.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, he'd been sparring with her himself. He couldn't, now. Couldn't make himself hit out. Couldn't make himself attack her in any way. He'd attacked her once, and that had short-circuited everything else.

He hadn't explained– to either Ellie or Sam – just made up excuses until they'd stopped expecting him to join in. He'd spar with Sam in the afternoon, or Baraquiel or Chaz or one of the nephilim.

"Sam, if you don't watch your guard, she's going to get in under it again and you'll have a matching set of bruises on both sides of your ribs," he called out.

Sam's response was a fleeting grin. Ellie didn't respond at all, her eyes on Sam's chest, her body as fluid as a cat's. Sam shifted to one side and then stepped in, blindingly fast, his fist half-closed and snapping out at her, but she'd already faded back, moving as fast backwards as he could forwards, so well balanced that it appeared that she floated away from him. It was one of the more aggravating moves she had, and one that Dean'd been trying to duplicate for years now. He watched as Sam over-extended his reach, losing the ability to move away, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, knowing what would happen next. She was on his little brother in an instant, her elbow paralysing his arm, the heel of her hand slamming into his jaw. Dean heard the snap of Sam's teeth from where he was sitting.

Sam stumbled forward, his right arm hanging limply by his side, and Ellie shifted sideways, leg snapping out, her momentum and full body weight behind the outside curve of her bare foot, hitting the back of Sam's shoulder with a dull thwap and sending him crashing to the hardwood floorboards. He rolled a couple of times to get out of her reach, and got to his feet, rubbing his arm, trying to get some feeling back into it.

Dean saw the concentration vanish from her face, as if it hadn't existed. She straightened up and walked over to Sam, taking his arm in her hands, and massaging around the nerve centre she'd struck, until he could wiggle his own fingers again.

"You have a late one last night, Sam?"

Sam grinned. "No. You're just sneaky as all hell."

She smiled. "And still alive. Go figure."

"Well, coach?" She turned, the smile aimed directly at him, and his heart contracted sharply.

"Not bad," he said, only a little unsteadily. Ellie snorted.

"Not bad," she repeated mockingly. "Come here and show me what you got."

"After wiping the floor with Sam, I'd hate to cut you down to size."

Sam's hooting laugh was clearly audible in the bare room, despite the fact that he was standing on the other side.

Ellie picked up her towel from bench next to Dean and slung it around her neck. She turned away from him, and he leaned forward, his hand flashing out and catching hers. She looked at him, surprised.

"What?"

"I'm sorry." He kept trying to say it. It was never enough, not in his mind.

"For what?" She turned back toward him.

"For everything." He looked down at her hand, still held in his. The bruising along her wrists had gone, like the ones around her throat. He could still see it, though.

"Everything?" Ellie looked down at him; he could hear the frown in her voice. "That's a lot."

He looked up at her. "You know what I mean."

She stepped closer to him, settling herself across his legs. He pulled in a deep breath and let his hands rest lightly against her hips, looking into her eyes. The flash of anxiety that filled him whenever she got near came and went. He was afraid, but that didn't stop him wanting that closeness. She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his, feeling his fingers tighten slightly around her, watching his eyes close. He kissed her back as her tongue traced the shape of his lips, his arms curving around her and pulling her closer. This time, it was seconds after she'd deepened the kiss that the images flashed into his head, and he lightened his touch, shying away from the passion that had always been overflowing between them. Ellie leaned back slightly, looking into his eyes.

"I'm not made of glass, Dean. I can take a bit more pressure."

He looked at her, his eyes wide and lips still parted, feeling his pulse slamming away at the base of his throat.

She sighed. "It wasn't your fault. It was just an over-reaction, Dean."

He wet his lips, eyes dark as he looked at her. "I know what it was, Ellie. I know you say that it … doesn't matter, doesn't change us, but I know what it was." He shook his head, looking down. It hadn't been just an over-reaction. It had been more than that, a lot more than that. "I don't do that. Have never done it. Not like that."

"I know." She slipped her arms around his neck, sliding her cheek along his. "I know that. But it wasn't what you think it was, either."

His lips compressed. He knew what had happened. Calling it something else didn't change it.

* * *

_When you love a woman you tell her that she's the one  
'Cos she needs somebody  
To tell her that it's gonna last forever  
So tell me have you ever really  
Really, really ever loved a woman?  
_

Dean stood on the open hill, feeling the string humming against the edges of his fingers. He looked up at the kite flying high above him, shifting his gaze to the second kite, swooping and fluttering a few yards from his, and down the string to his son, whose face was enraptured by the sight of his eagle-shaped kite flying in the strong wind.

_How normal was this?_ The thought brought a wry smile to his face, softening his eyes. A high-pitched squeal drew his attention to Rosie, wobbling from side to side on her tiny bicycle, riding around the playground at the bottom of the hill. He watched Ellie running beside the little girl, talking and laughing as they went slowly around in a big loop.

_Could there ever have been anyone else? Could he have had this with any other woman?_ It was possible, he guessed. But he didn't think so. Everything about her, everything that made her the person she was, was unique and unrepeatable, and all of it was necessary to him, meshing with who he was in ways he sometimes found impossible to believe. A woman who knew him, knew his life, who held his secrets in the deepest trust. A woman who loved him, every flaw and every scar and every stupid mistake even, who'd never given up on him, who'd given him everything he'd ever wanted, even when he hadn't known he'd wanted it.

And what'd he done with that? He looked back up at the kite, flying against the wind, sunshine scattering from the shiny foil-coated wings.

He understood how it had happened. Understood even, a part of the why, she'd told him that he'd been on the verge of self-destruction, a peculiar combination brought about by the raw and bloody physical action of the case in Billings and the fear he'd gone through on the way home, and he knew that to be true. And the name of the man who'd been her first teacher, her first hunting partner, her first lover, that had set it all off.

He remembered his thoughts when she'd said it. Tangled, painful, chaotic, underlaid by a furious howl of _mine, mine, this woman is mine_. He hadn't known that part of himself. There'd been a lot of times when he'd thought he'd lost her, thought she'd gone, but he couldn't remember feeling that possessiveness, that thick streak of _mine_. It had scared him. He didn't feel like that – it wasn't him. He didn't think he owned her, didn't try to control her. Yet it still stabbed him slightly, the thought that she'd risked her life to give release to that first man, to let him escape from an eternity of Hell.

At the time, he hadn't thought of why she'd let him do it. Thinking had been in flashes, incoherent, mostly primal. He thought he should've realised at some point what he was doing, should've wondered why she wasn't fighting him, stopping him. Afterward, she'd said that if she'd really thought he was going to hurt her, she'd have put him down. And he knew, with a dry inward smile, that she would've. It didn't explain why she hadn't.

Their history, their past … every time they'd made love, it had been different, sometimes wild and rough, sometimes so gentle it could take hours to reach a climax. It hadn't been dependent on anything, just the way they'd felt at the time. They had no routine, no fixed set of things that they did. It was an endless exploration, a wandering journey that mimicked their emotional path. The last few times, he acknowledged, had stopped that. He couldn't get past the memories burned into his mind. Couldn't touch her unless he was only barely touching her. Couldn't let the passion, that had once been so overwhelming that every glance, every caress, every meeting of their skin was explosive, out anymore, afraid that he'd lose control, that he would hurt her, take only his own pleasure in her body.

He was so fucking scared of that.

A spatter of raindrops hit his cheek, and he blinked, looking around. The kites were polka-dotted now, and the cloud passing over them was big enough to soak them if they kept them up.

"John." He started winding in his string. "Wind it up."

"But Dad –" John looked up at the kite, soaring in the gusts that were running ahead of the cloud.

Dean shook his head. "If they get wet, they won't fly. Bring it in."

He took the eagle kite when John had wound it in close enough to catch. The kite was bigger than his son was and the wind was starting to back and eddy, catching the wide terylene spans and shaking them. Another spatter of raindrops hit them, and they walked down the hill faster.

Ellie had Rosie's bike tucked into the back of the truck and Rosie sitting inside eating a banana when they reached the parking lot. Dean disassembled the kites quickly as Ellie settled John inside, the random spatters settling into a steady drizzle, getting stronger.

By the time he made the turn onto the gravel road that led up to the house, the rain was drumming steadily on the roof, Rosie was asleep in her car seat, and even John was leaning against the window, eyes half-closed as the steady noise lulled him.

He glanced over at Ellie, leaning back against the passenger door, her attention half on the road in front of them, half on the sleeping children in the back seat, and reached his hand out to hers, feeling the familiar jolt as he touched her, the strength that he sometimes thought he could see coming from her when he needed it.

The song played on in his head and he desperately wanted to tell her that she was the only one for him, that he loved her more than anything else, that he couldn't live without her, and that what they had, together, would last forever. None of those words would come out. She closed her fingers a little more firmly around his, and released his hand when he needed it to change down a gear, turning her head to look at the rain, a very small smile curving her mouth. Seeing that smile, he knew that she already knew those things. But not being able to say them, the voice in his mind deriding his feelings, reminding him of what he'd done, that hurt too.

* * *

The living room was brightly lit against the darkness that had drawn down with the storm, the fire blazing in the wide hearth, filling the room with warmth. Dean sat on the sofa, his head in his hands as he took in the latest data that Frank had found. In the scattering of armchairs, Sam, Dwight and Frank sat, reading through files, sipping the hot black coffee, watching the flames dance over the burning logs. Baraquiel sat next to Dean on the long sofa, a frown marring the near-perfect features, the firelight adding a deep red glow to the Watcher's long hair.

Twist and Garth had taken Chaz and Oman to Michigan to meet up with Laney's group a week ago. Twist had called yesterday to confirm that they'd taken down three wendigo, in a hundred mile area, and all the bodies had been atypical of the creatures, deformed in one way or another.

In the corner of the sofa, Ellie was curled up, looking at the satellite data Frank had pulled from the Department of Defence, the transparent overlay showing the location of two gates that were not sealed.

"And Cas said that the angels didn't know about the open gates?" Dean asked again, uncertain in his own mind about the angel. He'd lied to them before. The price had been very high, and Dean thought that Cas had learned that lesson, but it was possible that they were being lied to now.

Baraquiel looked at him. "He was adamant about it." He looked past Dean to Ellie. "We didn't know what the demon had said, when we saw him, but he was maintaining that Heaven has been putting its affairs in order, not pursuing any kind of outside actions."

Sam leaned forward in his chair. "What about the nephilim?"

"The first born are the most powerful." Baraquiel nodded at Sam. "But only when they're all together. On their own, they have similar powers to a full blood angel. There's no reason for them to be manipulating these populations, though. They are as susceptible to the effects of the monsters as humans are, with far worse consequences."

Dwight snorted. "Vamp nephilim, there's a charming frickin' thought!"

"The rugaru, Dwight. How old were they when they began to metamorphise?" Ellie looked at the older man.

"Two of them were in their thirties – early thirties," Dwight answered. "But the last one was a teenager. Why?"

"The normal progression is mid-to-late thirties, isn't it?"

"Always has been."

"Then someone has been speeding the genetic processes up, as well as introducing a breeding program." Ellie made a face as she closed the file on her lap and picked up her coffee.

Sam looked at her. "Or they've found something like a growth hormone, to speed things up."

"Or that," she agreed, looking at him from over the rim of her cup. "Why?"

"Got me." Sam glanced out through the room's double doors as Adrienne's distinctive wail came from the kitchen. "Back in a minute."

He got up and walked down the hall.

"Who could possibly benefit from the manipulations?" Ellie looked around at the men in the room.

"Who's powerful enough to get rid of them once they've achieved whatever purpose this is for?" Dean looked at her, one brow raised. "Because if this is just some kind of way to get rid of people …?"

He watched her shake her head, the small crease appearing on her forehead. "It's slow. And inefficient. If you can manipulate the genes or growth patterns of a species, building a really efficient virus would be much easier, much faster and much more reliable." She looked at him. "I could be wrong, of course, but this seems more like a power balance thing to me, not a wipe-out scheme."

He leaned against the sofa back. "Alright. Are we talking some kind of entity like Eve? Another mother who just wants her kids to have a fair shake on the playground?"

Frank looked at Ellie. "You know, we should really get that library of yours into a database. We could search the whole lot in a fraction of the time. With the OCR software now, we could even get the manuscripts translated and uploaded."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. How many processors can we spare for it?"

"At least ten." Frank made a note to himself. "We'll need a slightly better class of scanner."

Dean watched her face, feeling that little fillip of astonishment he always felt when she crossed into a different field of expertise, as comfortable in Frank's world as she was in theirs.

"Get what you need, Frank." She looked at Baraquiel. "We'll need some help."

Baraquiel nodded. "I'll bring everyone around in the morning. Where do you want to start."

Ellie bit her lip. "Given the priorities of the situation, with the oldest."

* * *

Dean sat at the kitchen table, half his attention on the game he was playing with John and Rosie; the other half on Ellie, watching her move around, getting ingredients for their dinner from the refrigerator, picking up a knife, chopping and stirring and grating. The smell of frying onions and garlic filled the room.

Her face was smooth with concentration, her movements graceful, deftly economical, the vegetables peeled and sliced in a short time, the knife blade flashing up and down rhythmically. He watched her crack eggs into a bowl; tip the translucent, pale gold onions and garlic in, work the mixture through with her hands, a row of meatballs forming on the greased paper beside her. He liked watching her move, watching her do things. He sighed inwardly. He liked watching her, period.

They split the cooking usually, but Ellie had been reading about growth hormones and food additives and a range of horror stories of what was added to food in China, and had decided that they needed to go biodynamic. Dean wasn't sure what he thought of that, given what he'd spent most of his life eating. He wasn't quite ready to make fun of it. Goddamned food cost ten times as much as the regular kind. It tasted different, though. The tomatoes had tasted like tomatoes, the sort you could imagine going into a home-made spaghetti sauce. So he'd held back his comments, the jury still out on a final verdict.

"Dad! Your go!" John was staring at him in annoyance. He looked at the board and rolled the dice, tap-tapping his marker along the squares.

"Okay?" He looked down at his son, whose blond hair was beginning to darken. In the few photos they had left of Lawrence, his had begun to darken around this age too.

"Yeah, but stop staring at Mommy," John said, as he rolled a number for himself, and moved.

Dean's eyes flashed guiltily up to Ellie's, and he saw her mouth curl into a half-smile as she looked at him, one brow arched.

"You want to come and help?" she asked.

He hesitated, then looked down at Rosie's face, creased up with worry that he would go and she might definitely lose if she was just playing with her brother. He shook his head.

"No, I'll keep an eye on John, make sure he plays by the rules." He grinned at the boy's indignant outcry.

"Hmm … now there's the pot calling the kettle black," she said, putting the bowl into the sink and pulling out a big pot.

"No one asked you," he retorted, scowling down at the board.

"What's that mean, Mom?" John turned around to look at her. Dean heard her snort.

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything other than your mother is too big for her boots," he answered quickly.

"Mommy's boots fit okay. What's that mean?" Rosie looked up at him, with a wide-eyed uncertainty. He sighed.

"Don't you guys want to finish this game before dinner?"

* * *

Rosie's bedroom was blue and white, her own choice of colours. The nightlight spilled a soft, pale glow over the dresser, but left the rest of the room in shadow. Dean drew the curtains shut as Ellie tucked the little girl in, automatically checking the sigils drawn in wax over the glass. Outside, the sky was clear, the moon half-full and riding high already. Inside, it was warm and as he looked around, he felt a flash of old familiarity, a deep sense of safety. The room didn't look anything like what he remembered of his bedroom in Kansas, but it had the same feel to it.

"'Night, Rosie." He leaned over the bed and kissed her, smoothing the curls from her forehead.

"'Night, Daddy," she said sleepily, her eyes already closing. He backed away to the door, and closed it softly, turning after Ellie as she walked to John's room.

John was sitting up in his bed, a frown drawing his brows together as he turned over the small car in his hands. He looked up as they came in, and set it back on the nightstand.

"What's wrong?" Dean glanced at the car curiously.

"It doesn't have the same back lights as ours." John wriggled down under the covers, lifting his face for his mother's kiss. "An' it's 'posed to be the same."

Dean picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It was a Matchbox car, a '67 Impala, but John was right, they'd gotten the taillights wrong. He put it back and sat on the edge of the bed as Ellie moved quietly around the room, picking up clothes and toys and putting them away.

"Guess they didn't have ours to compare it with when they made it," he said to the little boy.

"Even Rosie drawed it right, and she's only three!"

Dean smiled and nodded. "Yeah, well, not everyone is as smart as you and Rosie."

"Drew it, John," Ellie said softly from the door. "'Night to your Dad, it's time for sleep."

Dean glanced at her and looked back at John. "See you in the morning, kiddo."

"Are you and Mommy going away again?"

"Just for a couple of days, baby, then we'll be home," Ellie said.

Dean pulled the covers up, tucking them around John. "Just a little job."

"Okay, but can I stay at Tommy's house the next time you go somewhere?"

Dean felt his brows rise, and he turned and looked at Ellie. "Who's Tommy?"

"My best friend, at school," John yawned widely. "Can I?"

"We'll see, John. We have to talk to Tommy's folks before we make any arrangements, okay?"

"Okay." His eyes dropped shut, then rose slowly again. "'Night, Dad."

Dean leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "'Night, John."

He got up quietly and turned off the lamp, walking to the door. When he'd shut it quietly behind him, he looked at Ellie.

"Tommy?"

She smiled up at him. "New friend at school. Actually, one of many. Last week his best friend was Lucas."

"Glad you're keeping up."

* * *

_To really love a woman, let her hold you  
Til' you know how she needs to be touched_

She was warm against him, and her skin whispered like silk as she slid her leg over his. He looked down at her face, softly lit and golden-tinted from the candle light on the nightstands. When she moved up his body, he felt as if time had slowed down, the seconds drawing out to minutes, the minutes to hours. Her lips were so soft, her teeth grazing him, sending deep-seated shudders through him. He felt his eyes widen, his breath coming in short little gasps, no time or strength to take a deeper lungful as her fingers and mouth and tongue played him expertly and he abandoned himself to the waves of depthless pleasure she drew from his nerves, his body heavy and helpless. He felt her moving, and he opened his eyes, hands sliding along her thighs as she settled herself over him, his back arching up under her when she took him in. He was in her so deeply, he couldn't feel anything else but her, swallowing him, squeezing him. Heat. A tightness that defied explanation, enclosing him and rippling up him, the sensations so far beyond definition that they existed on a separate plane altogether. Softness. And above all, connection. So intimate. Inside of her.

Her hips rocked and he matched her rhythm, automatically, unthinkingly, the ache of withdrawal shocked away when she plunged down on him again, the muscles of his legs and back and stomach trembling with every deep thrust, every low moan, every half-heard gasping exhale. He hadn't been able to breathe for minutes now, his mind focussed solely on what was happening in his body, each plateau reached and there was no rest, he was climbing again to the next. He felt a deep shudder, in her, and he sucked in a fast breath, and another, as she started to flex around him, moving faster, slamming down onto him as he rammed up into her, and a million little muscles hummed inside, taking him over that line, that line where he could keep it from happening, that line where the other side was a chaos of pleasure spreading out in a blast radius through every nerve, making his fingertips tingle, his toes curl, his eyes roll back while his skin and muscles and tendons twitched in helpless overload.

His heart was booming in his ears, ribcage rising and falling as he pulled in huge lungfuls of air, sweat sheening every inch of his skin, gleaming in the candlelight. Sound came back, and smell, then sight, his brain making the reconnections to the world haphazardly and intermittently. Touch had never left, and he registered the softness of the strands of her hair, spilled over his chest, the smooth curve of her thighs where his hands rested along them. He looked down his body, half of her face visible beneath the curtain of bright copper.

"That wasn't fair," he said hoarsely, his throat still dry. He was okay if she was in control, they'd found. He could do anything then. And she led him through and lit him up and it felt so fucking good.

Ellie tilted her head to one side, looking up at him from one open eye. "How's that?"

"What happened to my turn?"

She shifted her hips slightly, and he couldn't stifle the moan at the feeling it created, his hips lifting hopefully as if he had anything left in him after that. He could feel the lift of her cheek against his stomach as she smiled.

"Next time, I guess." The eye closed.

_And when you find yourself lyin' helpless in her arms  
You know you really love a woman  
_

* * *

The house was quiet and still and he should've been able to sleep, should've found it easy with his body all heavy and relaxed. They had a fourteen hour drive tomorrow, and he really needed to sleep. But he couldn't. The song kept playing and it wouldn't let him go.

_When you love a woman  
You tell her that she's really wanted  
_

In his twenties, he'd never said the words out loud. Hadn't really even thought of them, except maybe with Cassie, and that had been because he hadn't known what else to call it. After Ohio, he'd been careful to stick to one-night stands, girls who'd been around, who had few illusions, girls he could leave without a backward glance.

For a long time he'd thought that he'd kept them to himself because admitting something like that was a weakness, a hole in the armour he'd built. He'd thought that if he let anyone know that he needed someone, wanted someone, they'd be able to run right over him. And Cassie sure had.

He remembered telling Sam that he had to cut his friends out of his life. And he'd told Lisa that it wasn't his life, when she'd offered him a home and a family. He couldn't remember who he'd been back then, not really. Some insecure and terrified dude who'd done his best to hide everything under a veneer of cocky self-confidence, who'd made jokes and mouthed off because he couldn't talk about himself, couldn't admit to his weaknesses, not to his brother, not to his father, and sure as shit not to some chick. He'd smart-mouthed his way into Hell, and he'd come out a different man. And still, even more so, he'd hidden himself as deep as he could, so that no one would know about the cracks and the fissures and the outright missing pieces. He'd thought he could trust Sam. And that had backfired in the worst kind of way. And then he'd had a hard time trusting anyone.

Ellie had been around, through those years. He hadn't thought of her that way, not after she'd left them that first time. She'd been a colleague, of sorts, another hunter. Then she'd been a friend. Someone he'd talked to, often about the things that he couldn't talk to with anyone else. He'd learned to trust her. Learned that he could trust her. It had taken him three years to catch up to where she'd been at. And in memory, he could still feel the shock and disorientation of hearing her say that she loved him. Those three words, hanging in the silence of the motel room. In the silence of his mind.

_When you love a woman you tell her that she's the one  
_

He hadn't been able to say them back to her, not then. Hadn't known if it was true for him then. He'd been filled with emotions that he didn't recognise, didn't understand, couldn't even keep straight in his head, let alone his heart. He had known that hearing her say it had healed a hell of a lot of the pain inside of him, pain that had riddled his heart, and his soul. And he'd known that she'd told him without needing him to love her in return, had told him because she'd wanted him to start healing. And that had shown him what love looked like, when it was real.

_'Cos she needs somebody  
To tell her that it's going to last together  
_

He shifted more onto his side, arms tightening around her, ducking his head to breathe in her scent, to brush his lips over her forehead. She murmured something sleepily, her arm sliding across his stomach and curling around him.

_So tell me have you ever really  
Really, really ever loved a woman?_

Now, he knew. Knew without a doubt. He thought he'd probably changed the most over the year he'd spent with Lisa and Ben. Grown up. Had put aside the smart mouth and the last remnants of the cocky dude, and had buckled down, trying to make himself live a normal life. A lot of those changes had come from losing Sam to the cage. The rest when he'd acknowledged to himself that Ellie wasn't coming back either, that what he had in Cicero was all he was ever going to get.

He'd thought that all that pain would have cauterised his feelings, would have deadened him to anything else. But it hadn't. That same _caring_ that had both crucified him and resurrected him in the pits of Hell had been intact, and he'd realised when he'd seen her again that nothing he'd done, nothing he'd told himself or believed, had changed how he felt about her. What had happened, in fact, was that he'd finally recognised those feelings and understood them.

And he'd told her, saying it for the first time, knowing it was the truth. Those three little words.

_You've got to give her some faith, hold her tight  
_

He didn't say them much. Only when he couldn't not say them because the feeling filled him up way too much to be able to hide it. And sometimes, even now, he couldn't say them at all, even when his chest was aching with it, when he wanted to, more than anything. It had taken him a while to figure it out why. The witch had been almost right. He didn't doubt her feelings for him – marrying him, having his children, that kind of spoke for itself – but there was a still a lot he didn't know. Still pieces he hadn't seen, that she hadn't told him about. And those missing pieces … anything could be in those missing pieces. The witch had been one. Her need for him, that she'd hidden away, had been another.

_A little tenderness, you gotta treat her right  
_

The lyrics wound their way through his thoughts, and his chest tightened abruptly, the breath he'd been drawing in stopping halfway down, sticking there.

_Rape._

It was a fucking ugly word. His teeth ground together as he forced himself to let it sit in his mind. There wasn't another word to describe what had happened. What he'd done to her. The word glowed against the blackness of his closed eyelids and cut at him.

_She will be there for you, takin' good care of you  
_

His whole life had been about protecting those who couldn't protect themselves, trying to save them, trying to keep them safe. John Winchester had driven that lesson into the souls of his sons. He'd been contemptuous of men who used their strength to hurt those weaker than themselves. Particularly men who hurt the women and children under their protection. It was the antithesis of who he was, who he'd thought he was. He'd killed for that. Put them down like mad dogs, stone-cold sober.

He didn't know how he could have done it to her. He would have sworn that it was impossible for him. He would have bet his life on it. He'd been strung out, the fight with the skinwalkers, the nightmarish drive from Montana, the way his trouble sense had flared, shrieking at him with ice-pick pain that he had to be there, had to stop it, no idea what was wrong or why, unable to think of anything, just the pain of the warning, just the fear flooding him. Finding her inside the trap, the bruises on her neck. And he'd asked why.

He understood why she'd had to do it … _now_. He knew that she couldn't have left the demon, the demon who'd been her friend, to face more of Hell's torment. Couldn't have sent him back down to the pit. She'd told him, years ago, that it had been her fault that he'd been down there, that she'd let him down. And her sense of responsibility sometimes exceeded his own. But when it had hit him, that she'd risked her life, _their life_, because of her past with Michael … he didn't know exactly what had driven that rage, only that it had filled him in a microsecond, and he'd reacted.

The memory of it was eating him, eating through him. And every time he just wanted to hold her, every time he ached to tell her how much he loved her, the words lodged behind his teeth, crammed down his throat, that memory stopping them cold. When you loved someone, you didn't hold them down, didn't force yourself into them, didn't take them and leave them lying there, bruises rising along their skin.

_You really gotta love your woman_

* * *

_**I-5 S, California**_

The traffic had been flowing well and they'd made good time, Dean thought as they passed the exits for Bakersfield. His eyes felt grainy and sore, the lack of sleep the previous night grinding into him despite the fact that Ellie had done the driving to Stockton. California was too bright; he thought sourly, too much sunshine, especially for the tail end of winter.

"Do you want to find a motel in Pasadena or somewhere further out and drive in tomorrow morning?" He glanced at Ellie.

She made a face. "Somewhere outside. Anywhere from here'll do."

He nodded. He had no particular love for the city, for the almost palpable press of people it contained.

_To really love a woman, to understand her  
You gotta know her deep inside  
_

He rubbed a hand over his face, wondering when the goddamned tune would leave him alone. Three days of Adams' scratchy tenor in his head was bad enough, the words were worse.

She could've stopped him. Could've fought him. She'd done neither. She'd said that he needed to let those feelings out, that he'd been holding them too tight for too long. That was crap. He'd spent years hanging onto all kinds of destructive emotions and while he could admit it hadn't been a great idea to do that, a day or two longer wouldn't have killed him.

His eyes cut to the side, looking at her. She was reading through Jim's journal, again, looking for a way to close the gate.

"Why didn't you stop me?" The question came out abruptly, and his hands tightened on the wheel.

He felt her eyes lift to him, saw her close the journal from the corner of his eye. The closer they got to LA, the more traffic joined the road, and he kept his eyes fixed to the cars ahead.

He heard her soft exhale. "This is where you want to talk about it, Dean?"

"Why not?" He shrugged. "There's no good place to talk about it."

"Alright," she said quietly. "You were wound up so tight, I was trying to think of some way to get you to let go." She curled up into the corner, between the door and the seat, looking at him. "I didn't know that you were going to snap over the demon being Michael. And I still don't know why you did. But when it all came out, I didn't want to stop it, didn't want you to have to hold it all back again. And I didn't know if you could even hear me then, or if you had enough control to stop yourself if I'd fought back."

He shook his head impatiently, not believing that. "You could have talked me down, Ellie. You've done it before." He flicked a glance at her. "Hell, you could've put me down, and that would've stopped it."

She nodded. "Maybe I could've. Maybe not. I don't think you realise how much you were holding in, or how little control you had by that time."

"You thought it was a better option for me to – to – take you like that?" He still couldn't say it. Couldn't even think it right now.

"I thought it was the quickest way you could get the release you needed," she corrected him mildly.

He stared at the road, fingers flexing around the leather grip on the wheel, as memory and emotion crashed together in his mind. She'd made the decision for him, and it was killing him by inches. "Didn't you think of how it was going to make me feel – after?"

"Of course I did!" The edge in her voice was unexpected, razor sharp. "I hoped you'd listen to me. I hoped you'd understand."

He saw the vacancy sign and changed lanes, lips thinned as he put the conversation on hold to deal with the road. Slowing down for the exit, he found the right road at the bottom of the ramp and turned right. The motel was a few hundred yards down the road and he pulled in, stopping the car outside of the office.

Ellie got out. The door clunked softly as she shut it behind her, walking up the two steps and disappearing through the glass door.

He leaned his forehead against the wheel. _Understand? Understand what? Did she understand that he'd gone from being one of the good guys, to being a …a … monster in that moment? That he couldn't make sense of the anger? That he couldn't see himself the way he used to anymore?_

* * *

"Why were you so angry when I said it was Michael?" She looked up at him.

He turned away, his chest constricting, hands closing into fists involuntarily, feeling his muscles harden and tighten, his tendons thrum against his control. He walked to the other end of the room, not going anywhere, moving because he couldn't stay still.

"Dean?" Ellie stood up, stopping him mid-way across the room, her hands settling against his chest. "Why?"

"Don't come near me." He backed away. Rage, pain, fear, all churning inside of him and he knew that he couldn't hold it together, not if she was close, not if she touched him. His head finally lifted, his eyes meeting hers, seeing the pain in her face, seeing her not understanding. He didn't understand himself. He felt as if he were standing on a high wire, balanced over the abyss, and one wrong step and he'd lose everything, he'd fall and she wouldn't be there to catch him because she was on the wire too.

"Tell me," she whispered and he closed his eyes, his jaw muscle leaping out.

"Because I'm scared, okay? That what you want to fucking hear? The _hunter_ you married is scared to hell of wanting –" The words came out like a fusillade, from somewhere deep inside, and he stopped when he heard them echoing around the room, the raw fear in them shocking him. He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at anything, he could feel himself taking short fast breaths; feel how close he was coming to coming undone.

"There are things I don't know about you, Ellie, so many fucking things, and every time I find out something, it's something bad, something that makes me – did you love him? Why the hell did you risk yourself – _us_ – our _family_ – for him? You could've killed him from outside the trap, why'd you go into it?"

"Because it had to be self-defence, he didn't want me to go to Hell," she said softly. "I couldn't send him back, Dean. He was my teacher, my friend, and I put him –"

He opened his eyes, staring at her, hands running over his hair. "I've told you fucking _everything_ – about everyone and everything – this – I can't take this, not knowing – I don't know how you felt about that guy –"

She took a step toward and stopped when he took a step back. "I cared about him. But I didn't love him, didn't even know what love was when I was with him. I told you it was you made me feel –" She watched him turn away, his face screwing up. "Dean, listen to me –"

"I am fucking listening to you!" God, this was hurting, this was hurting so much inside.

"No, you're not!" Her face twisted. "You're listening to the voice in your head that's telling you you're gonna get hurt if you keep caring so much!" She walked to him, backing him up against the wall. "I _love_ you, I'm not going to hurt you, I'm not going to leave you, I'm not going to turn into something else or someone else." She slammed a hand against his chest. "This is us, together, because of the way we feel, because of who we are!"

"You can say that, and you can even mean it, Ellie," he said, looking down at her, "but it doesn't change anything! It doesn't make me know you better, doesn't help."

"Then tell me how we get through it, Dean." She leaned against him, and a shiver rippled through him under her hands. "Tell me what you need."

"I don't know, I don't fucking know!"

"What are you afraid of?" She stepped back from him. "Are you afraid of me? Are you afraid of hurting me? What is it?"

"I don't know!" He twisted away, shaking his head. He was so goddamned confused – it had seemed clearer before. He didn't know how to fix this, or why everything he didn't know had been bearable two days ago, and wasn't now. "I-I don't know how much I don't know – I don't know if one day there'll be another piece that I didn't know about it and everything that I wanted, everything that I have, that we have, will be gone." He looked at her. "I'm scared of all the things I don't know about you."

"Then ask!" Her brows were drawn together. "Ask me anything you want to know."

"I don't know what to ask! I don't know what's missing!" His thoughts were chaotic, he couldn't answer her, couldn't find an answer in that mess. "All I know is that I'm going along, thinking that everything is fucking fine, and then I get hit with something you haven't told me about and it feels like – I feel like I'm gonna lose it all."

"I can't write you a memoir – there must be something you're clear on," she said, an acerbic edge creeping into her voice.

His eyes narrowed at her tone. "Your past is fucking littered with monsters you've slept with, Ellie – don't tell me I'm not fucking clear."

"They weren't monsters when I was with them." Her jaw tightened.

"No," he agreed readily. "One became a demon after you let him get dragged to Hell; the other became a shapeshifter after you dumped him."

Inside him, something howled with triumph when he saw the words bite into her. But another part of him was still with shock, at the way the words had come out like that, that they'd come out at all. He was angry at her, angry for hurting her, angry at the way her past could fuck up everything he thought was safe, angry that he couldn't protect her if he didn't even know what was out there, waiting for her. But he didn't want to hurt her. Or maybe he did. He didn't know that either.

"Fuck you," she said, so quietly he almost didn't hear her. The slap wasn't hard, barely stinging along his cheek.

"I'll pass."

The second he said it, hearing the contempt that laced the words, it all coalesced in his mind and he knew. Knew what he was afraid of, knew why he was so fucking angry with her, knew what had driven him that night, knew it all, and knew that he'd found out too late.

The blood drained from her face, leaving it white and pinched-looking, jade-green eyes vividly bright against the pallor. She turned away and he stepped forward, arms wrapping tightly around her before she could move further, his face against her hair.

She struggled, her foot slamming down on his, elbow driving into his ribs, and this time, she was fighting. He got as close as he could, keeping her arms pinned to her sides, not giving her room to move, hearing the harsh rasp of her breaths against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said against her cheek, holding her tightly as she tried to find a move, a wedge against him. "Don't – just wait – Ellie – I'm sorry."

Her nails drove into his side and he grunted with the flash of pain, staggering sideways and sending them both crashing onto the bed. He freed one arm to catch her hands and hold them tightly together in front of her. "Wait, okay? I can –"

Her knee lifted and he barely turned fast enough to take the impact in his thigh, instead of his balls, rolling on top of her, one hand gripping both of her wrists, his face inches from hers. He saw the flex of the tendons in her neck and snapped his head to one side, her forehead hitting his cheekbone, instead of the bridge of his nose.

"Stop it," he growled, yanking his arm out from under her, pressing his forearm against her chin. She stared up at him, her breath huffing against his jaw, as his shivered the strands of hair against her cheek, her eyes as cold and hard as stone.

"I'm sorry." He shifted again as he felt her muscles tighten under him despite the fact that she had the full weight of his body plastered on top of her. "Hear me out, just let me explain. Please."

She kept staring into his eyes, hers still cold and filled with fury. "Give me one good reason."

"I'll give you a few," he said softly. "Because I love you, so much that I can't get my head straight if I think that anything's happened to you. Because you love me, I know you do, I know it, and because that's how it's supposed to be, this is where _we're_ supposed to be, you and me, together."

She didn't move, the glare hadn't changed at all, but he felt something shift, somewhere inside of her. Something soften, just a little. He took a deep breath.

"I was scared, Ellie." He ducked his head. "I have been since Raphael tried to kill you."

He felt her twitch and shook his head. "I was scared that I was going too deep, falling too fast, with you. I told myself I wasn't. Told myself all kinds of shit. It didn't matter. I kept fucking it up, no matter what I did, or how hard I tried, I kept fucking it up and I nearly lost you too many times, and all of it made me think that sooner or later, there would come a time when I finally did."

He pulled in a breath, trying to do it shallowly so that his ribs didn't dig into hers, looking down at her. "On the way back from Billings, that … prickling … warning thing I get … it hit me like a fucking sledgehammer. It wasn't prickling anymore; it was burning, like someone tipped acid down my neck." He watched her eyes widen slightly, and lifted a shoulder. "I knew you were in danger, knew it like Sam used to know things when he had his visions. I don't think I'm turning into Psychic Boy … I think that the more the fear built up, the stronger my feelings got, the connection, that got stronger too."

"So when I got home, and saw you –" he stopped, closing his eyes against the rush of emotion that the memory brought back, letting it wash through him, trying desperately to just let it go, knowing he had to let it go because held in it would just keep on poisoning him.

"You were right. I could hardly walk. Couldn't think. I was just an emo thickshake, straight from the blender." He heard the shakiness in his voice and dragged in another breath. "I got a nice little kick in the nuts, when I recognised the teacher, knowing that John had been right about him, got his dad's spidey sense and I'd ignored it, left you both in danger. But that was just a little sweetener compared to everything else that was going on."

He opened his eyes, and saw hers were closed tightly. "When you said you'd gone into the trap because it was Michael, I didn't know who you meant, at first. When I remembered … I don't know. It was like the house fell on me, or something. I couldn't breathe and whatever I'd been thinking just went. The only thing I could remember going through my head then was this one thought, over and over, that you were mine, and I was going to prove it. I didn't even know what it meant. I didn't even see what I was doing."

He felt her shuddering breath against his neck and looked down at her, seeing the glistening tracks across her face. He lifted his arm, letting go of her wrists and moving to one side, taking his weight off her, his arms curling around and pulling her close to him. "I didn't want to hurt you, didn't _mean_ to hurt you."

She shook her head against his shoulder, her chest hitching. He could feel dampness, seeping through his shirt to his skin and he closed his eyes. Over the years, they'd hurt each other … a lot, a helluva lot. Would it always be like this? Was this the price for the way they felt, how deeply they felt, this ability to wound each other to the core?

"If I didn't feel so deeply, Dean, it wouldn't hurt nearly as much," Ellie whispered, as if she'd heard his thoughts clearly, as if he'd said it out loud. He looked down at her, feeling the ache in his chest.

"You know, you can convince yourself of something so well, that you don't even take it into consideration any more." He exhaled softly. "I didn't see it coming. I didn't even know that I felt anything at all about it. And it wasn't just because of what he was to you," he looked down again. "It was anyone – everyone – who was in your past, who had something with you that I didn't know about, didn't understand. I wanted to kill them all. I wanted you to be free of them, so that I could be free of them, and not so fucking scared that the next time would be the end."

"Are you still afraid?"

"I don't know." He sucked in a deep breath. "I don't figure out this crap that quick, you know that." It was an attempt to get her to smile, just a little.

"I didn't see you – not as you, when I – that night, Ellie. At the same time I kind of did, and I didn't really feel like me, it was some other me, someone I don't know." He grimaced slightly, hearing how incoherent that had sounded. "I mean … fuck, I don't know how to describe it."

He felt the movement of her face, looking down to see her brows draw together.

"Oh god, Dean, that's what you've been thinking?" She twisted in his arms, looking up at him, pushing herself up until she was sitting. "That it was rape?"

He made a sound in his throat, unable to look at her. "There some fancy new word for it that I don't know? What else do you call it when a guy holds a woman down and – and – and – hurts her and forces himself on her?"

"That wasn't …" She looked at him, turning his face to her. "That's not how it was. That's not how I saw it. That might be a slippery line, but it wasn't, not what you did, not with me."

He closed his eyes. "I hurt you, Ellie."

"I didn't tell you to stop. I didn't say no, don't do it."

"You thought I wouldn't hear you." He shook his head. "Maybe I wouldn't have."

"Maybe, but I didn't give you that choice anyway. Don't, please; don't think of it that way." She put her arms around him, ignoring his tiny flinch. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I should've told you that straight away."

"Christ, Ellie, don't apologise to me." He tried to move away, and her arms tightened around him.

"I have to – I didn't – I thought it was because of the bruises," she said. "I had no idea you thought of it as an attack."

His face screwed up. "We _ever_ had sex like that? Wanted it like that?"

"No," she said slowly, "but …"

He opened his eyes as she trailed off, suddenly realising why she hadn't finished the sentence. "Don't tell me."

"No." She leaned over him. "I'm sorry."

He rolled onto his side, his arm over his face. "Can we just not talk for a while? Please?"

He couldn't take any more right now. Not thinking about himself, not thinking about her, what she'd done, what had happened to her in the past. He didn't know if anything had changed, didn't know if he felt differently about what had happened. He couldn't feel the anger anymore, it was buried, drowned under a suffocating wave of pain and sorrow that was making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

He'd been afraid of how he'd felt about her from the moment that he'd admitted to himself that he wanted more than friendship. Afraid that it was a weakness. Afraid that he would end up smashed into little pieces with no hope of recovery. He'd already felt broken. He'd spent a long time trying to find a way out of those feelings, trying to pretend that they weren't real. It wasn't until Seattle, when he'd used someone else to try and prove to himself that he didn't need Ellie, that he'd found out that those feelings had become a part of him, integral to who he was, as necessary as breathing.

He felt her hand move slowly up his back, coming to rest on the back of his neck and draw him closer to her as she lay beside him, the gentle touch sending a shudder through him, and breaking through the dammed up feelings that filled his chest and throat, releasing the pressure that made his head pound and ache.

_And when you find yourself lyin' helpless in her arms  
You know you really love a woman  
_

The song played softly in his head. He was lying there, in her arms, as helpless and hurting as he'd ever felt in his life, his pain and guilt at what had happened to them, between them, seeping out slowly with the tears that were soaking her shirt, soaking the bedspread under them. He didn't know how much later it was when he finally felt tired and empty and emotionless, her arms still around him. He barely heard her breathing change as he drifted into sleep.

* * *

_**Devil's Gate Reservoir, Pasadena, California**_

The arroyo was dry and dusty and empty, the buildings lined above it, buttressed by the high concrete walls, reflecting the pale sunshine back down onto them. The small rivulet, which swelled to a river when it rained, trickled past them, barely making a sound as it wound through the soft, sandy soil.

The EMF showed the gate, and if he turned his head and looked at something else, he could see the flicker of it in the corner of his eye, like a sheer curtain in a breeze. Looking directly at where he thought it was showed nothing, but after a while it produced a headache that would worsen rapidly.

Ellie stood close to it, and finished marking out the trap, straightening up and stepping back as she replaced the bags of salt in the duffle over her shoulder, and pulled out a small book. She glanced at him, one brow raised and he nodded.

"_In nomine Patris, Dominus totius creaturæ, praecipio portae obicerent cogunt –_"

The sound of wings filled the canyon, echoing from the hard walls. Dean looked at Castiel without surprise.

"Cas, long time no see."

"Dean." The angel turned slightly to nod at Ellie. "Ellie."

"Come to see us finishing Heaven's undone work?" Dean asked.

"Not exactly." Castiel looked down at the devil's trap around the gate. "Baraquiel advised me that several gates were still standing open. I'm here because I'm supposed to make sure they're sealed."

Dean glanced at Ellie. "Make sure? You mean the way Michael made sure when he told us that all the gates were sealed?"

Castiel sighed. "I can understand your reluctance to trust in Heaven, Dean. I would ask, as a small favour, that you give me the benefit of the doubt."

"Oh, you've got that, Cas, trust me."

The angel looked at him sharply, then gave a small shrug. "How did you find out that this gate was open?"

"A demon told us. A demon that came through it." Ellie walked to Dean's side.

"A demon came through here?"

"Yeah." Dean slid his arm around Ellie's shoulders, his brows drawing together as he studied the angel. "Chatty demon. Told us that me and Sam are still of interest to a lot of folks. Told us that our kids are too."

He saw the slight hitch in the angel's chest and felt his heart sink. Cas had known, had known and hadn't given him a warning. He felt Ellie tense beside him.

"Why didn't you warn us, Cas?" she asked, her voice low and uneven.

Castiel turned to them, his eyes going from Dean's to Ellie's and returning to Dean's.

"I didn't find out about that until recently," he said quietly, looking at Dean apologetically. "I was going to –"

Dean shrugged, looking away. "Too little, too late, man."

"What about the nephilim, Cas?" Ellie asked, her voice fractionally harder. "Are they manipulating the genetics of the monsters? Is that a part of Michael's planning?"

He looked genuinely shocked. "The nephilim? Most are dead – the Others were wiped out."

"The first borns," Ellie clarified, and Dean saw the small crease appear between her brows. "Are they gathering?"

"No. At least, not that I know of." Castiel looked at her, his dark blue eyes wide. "Michael has nothing to do with them. You know how he feels about them, Ellie, how most of them feel – they're abominations." He shook his head, looking at the ground. "I didn't even know – what do you mean, manipulating the monsters?"

"We're seeing increases in every population of Eve's kiddies, Cas." Dean's eyes narrowed as he watched the angel's face. "And something's helping them along."

"I don't know – I haven't heard anything about that." Castiel looked at them. "I understand that you can't take my word on this, but believe me, I would tell you if there were any plans in Heaven that had to do with the first born nephilim."

Dean didn't know if Castiel was telling the truth. They didn't spend that much time together any more.

"Can you seal the gate, Castiel?" Ellie asked.

"Yes, that's what I came here to do." He turned to the gate, glancing over his shoulder. "If you can both step back?"

They retreated a few yards and watched as the angel began to glow softly, hearing his murmur like a song on the still air.

Castiel reached out, his fingers spread out wide. The air thickened, gleaming like nacre as it was outlined by the light of the seraphim. The EMF in Dean's hand shrieked once, making him jump, then the needle fell and lay limp in the gauge. He looked up and the doorway had gone.

"I will find out more about these things and come to you in Oregon." Castiel turned back to them. "I'm not lying to you. I am still your friend."

The beat of wings echoed off the hard concrete walls. Dean looked down at Ellie. "What do you think?"

"I think Cas was surprised." She bent to pick up the duffle, and he took it from her, slinging it over his shoulder.

"You don't think he was lying?"

"No." She shook her head. "He knew about you, and Sam and the children. But he wasn't lying about the rest."

Dean looked back at where the gate had been. "One down anyway."

She nodded. "That was always a bad one, opening and closing on its own."

"If it was that easy, why didn't one of the angels shut it centuries ago?" Dean frowned.

"I would guess that salvation looks better if there's an actual demon or two roaming around, than if people believe it's just a fairy tale to scare people into better behaviour."

"Cynical."

She smiled. "Realistic."

* * *

_**Redding, California**_

The room was lit by the lamp on the nightstand, throwing their shadows over the other side of the bed, gilding her skin to pale gold, and making her hair shimmer as she moved her head over the white sheets, her hands reaching up above her.

_You've gotta breathe her, really taste her  
_

He lifted his head, looking up her body as she moaned so deeply he could feel the vibration through the mattress. She was close, and he didn't know how long he was going to be able to hold himself together, the last hour a torment in self-control, taking his time in a way he hadn't done for a while, exploring her, remembering all the little things, more aroused every time she came, around his fingers, against his mouth, and the song distant, but still there, humming in the back of his mind.

They'd pulled in after dark, neither wanting to push on until morning. They'd be home well before dark tomorrow. And there was still a lot to get through.

They'd talked a little on the drive up the I-5, not as much as he'd thought they would. The silences that had stretched out for miles had been filled with their thoughts, not the barren silences of nothing to say, or too much to say. He'd finally recognised that mindless fury, understanding that it wasn't a new thing inside of him, but an old one. It was the thing that could kill without thought or remorse when his family was in danger. The thing that shot first and never asked questions. It had pulled out the Colt and shot the demon when it had attacked Sam. It had pushed at Meg Masters, through her broken body when she was dying, determined to get the location of his father. It had taken over and killed Crowley when they'd gotten out of Hell, and he'd thought that Ellie was dying at his feet, and it had pushed away his exhaustion and killed an arch-demon without fear or hesitation when he'd seen her lying on a stone table in a cavern of the damned.

He'd never felt it in conjunction with any other emotion. He hadn't realised that he still wondered about her feelings for Michael Furente, until it had come howling up through him, insisting that she belonged to him, and him alone, triggered by the combination of fear and anger he'd felt when she'd told him what she'd done. It didn't make it easier exactly, to accept what he'd done, but it made it possible to understand what had happened. And it was no longer scaring the hell out of him that it might happen again.

When she'd suggested stopping overnight, he'd known what she wanted, and he'd felt that familiar heat, low down inside of himself. He'd had an idea that she might want to do something that would push him, but so far, she'd given herself up to him, not asking for anything, sensuously revelling in his attention.

He moved up her slowly, his mouth trailing over her skin, his hand following, and she opened her eyes, the pupils huge and black, looking at him.

"Come here." Her voice was barely audible, the two words on an exhaled breath, and he covered her mouth with his, spreading her legs, lifting himself between them as her arms curved around his neck.

He hesitated and felt her hips nudge at him, then he pushed in slowly, feeling her stretch and open around him, his eyelids fluttering shut as sensation swamped his mind, every nerve feeding his brain as the blood flow quickened. Deep and warm, and he could never work out why he didn't spend more time, most of his time right here, where pleasure spread through him in lazy spirals and he was completely himself, loved and accepted and on fire.

He moved slowly, going deep and pulling out almost the whole way, then pushing in again. He could feel that tell-tale subsonic humming around him as he drove into her, and it sent shivery jolts through him, making his legs and stomach and back tremble in anticipation.

When she lifted her hips sharply, he felt himself slam deeper, and his eyes opened in surprise, looking into her face. She looked back at him, pupils huge, her lips parted as her hips bucked again. He lost his breath on the second thrust, understanding coming in tiny, incoherent flashes.

"Wait …" He ducked his head, feeling the muscles up his back contract sharply. "Uh … Ellie …"

Her arms slipped under his, curving around his hips and holding him tightly as she slammed up again and he went deeper still, every movement a detonation. She found a rhythm, and his back bowed again, fingers curling into the sheet under them.

"Uh … god, wait a minute …"

"Not glass, Dean," she said, and her muscles rippled around him. "Won't break."

Tricked him again, and he felt the rush of his blood, thundering through his veins as her hips lifted and a wave of pleasure exploded in his groin and fluxed outward through him.

"I want to feel you, deep and hard and losing your mind in me," she whispered, and he groaned as the words ran along his nerves like a lit fuse.

_Til' you can feel her in your blood_

"Goddammit," his voice was barely audible and he pulled in a deep breath. He looked down at her for a second, and matched her thrust with one of his own, seeing her eyes fly open, hearing the rush of breath of her exhale.

"Ladies choice," he whispered into her ear. He found the tattered remnants of control from somewhere, and pulled himself back from the brink, lifting his head and watching her face as he sped up, feeling her grip slip from his hips as she shook helplessly at every hard thrust, her thighs clenched tight against his hips.

Fire raced along every nerve, through every blood vessel, and he hadn't felt it quite like that before, consumed and energised at the same time, a conviction of invincibility, a depth of love, intertwined and burning through him and searing the image of her face into his brain. She was making little gasping moans, each one catching in his flesh, driving him harder, and he couldn't hear the noises he was making, only feel the vibrations, in his chest, in his throat, against his lips. When she opened her eyes again and looked at him, he knew she was looking _into_ him, in past the skin and flesh and bone, past the blood and muscle and nerve, so deep into him that for an endless second, he felt a brush of _her_, the real her, the essence of her, touch his soul.

_An' when you see your unborn children in her eyes  
_

Her body convulsed around him, everywhere, tightening and squeezing him, and he exploded inside of her, no warning, he didn't even have time to get another breath before thought was wiped and he was just shaking, his fingers curled around her shoulders, forgetting who he was, every connection between body and brain dissolved and burned away.

_You know you really love a woman  
_

* * *

He felt raw and exposed and open to everything. His thoughts and feelings. His memories. The deepest secrets and the most trivial musings all laid bare, floating around in the cheap room. He could see them all in her eyes, everything about him, as plainly transparent as a glass filled with water.

He didn't have to say it. She knew it, he could see that knowledge in the softness of her eyes, feel it in the warmth of her hand resting against his chest. He didn't have to say it, but he wanted to, to tell her, wanted to keep telling her, because it was true, because it was his truth.

"I love you."

Three little words, hanging in the silence between them, in the space that they shared.

He looked at her, feeling a fizz of excitement, of embarrassment, of hope and longing and a strange, breathless anxiety that he barely remembered from his teenage years, a cocktail of effervescence, filling up his airways, looking for a way to explain what was banging against the walls of his heart, trying to get out.

"I … I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens ... only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses. Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."

The fragment of the poem came out on its own, not even in his voice. He didn't know where it came from … some distant, vague memory of an open book on Sam's motel bed, the passage underlined and the page edges grubby. Her eyes had opened wide, staring into his, and he ducked his head, feeling a lifting, incandescent joy at her surprise.

He leaned toward her and kissed her, feeling the slam of her pulse in her wrist as it rested against his neck. When she pulled back a little from him, he opened his eyes.

"You know that, don't you? Know who wrote it, know all about it?"

Her eyes crinkled slightly as she nodded.

"I don't. Don't know anything about it – except it's you, inside of me." He looked at her, wanting her to say something, anything, wanting to know, for sure, that it was the right thing to say, that she knew how he felt, that she knew everything that bound him to her. He licked his lips, knowing that he was far out over the abyss and falling.

"You tell anyone I quoted poetry, and I'll deny it," he warned her softly. The laugh burst out of her, surprised and soft and warming.

"I love you," she said, her eyes still filled with laughter, fingers curling a little more closely around his neck as she caught him.

_You've got to tell me have you ever really loved a woman?_

* * *

**END**


	7. Chapter 7 Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

**Chapter 7 Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The wind rushed down the mountainside, shaking the soaked twigs and branches of the trees and scattering drops of water across the gravelled road, the bare garden and against the cladding of the house. Inside, Dean looked up at the patter on the glass, watching the thin, tattered clouds scudding across the sky. Another month and he'd be back to mowing, in between storms. Everything grew like crazy here, the rich soils and the mild climate conspiring with Mother Nature to turn the suburban gardens into wilderness.

He looked into his empty cup and got up slowly, feeling the incipient headache somewhere behind his eyes. Frank enjoyed sending him the new reports in micro-fonts, guaranteeing eye-strain by the time he'd finished reading them. He wandered down to the kitchen, going to the coffee pot and pouring himself another load of caffeine.

Ellie came in as he was turning around, cheeks reddened and strands of coppery hair pulled free from her habitual braid by the strong wind.

"Hey." She dropped a thick file onto the table and unwound the thin scarf from her neck.

"Hey, how was the road?" He put the cup down on the end of the table and walked to her, his arms enclosing her, her skin and hair filled with the fresh scent of the windswept mountain flooding his senses as he bent his head to kiss her neck.

"Yesterday's storm has given us a whole new set of ruts and holes to navigate," she said breathlessly, linking her hands behind his neck as she looked up at him. "And there's a tree down, past Chaz' place."

He nodded, releasing her with a soft sigh. "I'll clear it before lunch."

He looked at the file on the table. "What's that?"

"First search results on the information uploaded from the library." She glanced down at it. "Monster variations."

"Huh." The file was almost four inches thick, and barely a third of the reference library had been digitalised and added to Frank's database. "Better make another pot of coffee."

She snorted. "Anything in the latest real-time data?"

"Yeah, a headache," he said, rubbing his fingers over his forehead as he picked up his cup. "Tell Frank to stop reducing the goddamned font."

"Anything else?" she asked patiently.

"He cross-referenced the original jump in the numbers against the reports he got from Seattle, then again against the new federal data," he said slowly, looking at her. "Looks like the rate of increase in populations has slowed a bit, but the mutations are increasing."

Ellie frowned. "Have the mutations stabilised across each species?"

When they'd originally seen the reports of the deformations of some of the species, there were very few commonalities, particularly in relation to cause. It made trying to work out who could be doing it impossible. Dean shrugged.

"Yeah – maybe. There's still not enough data to be sure, but it looks like the same thing is affecting each type in the same way now."

"This just gets weirder and weirder," she said.

"Tell me about it."

The doorbell rang and they both looked in the direction of the hall. "I'll get it," Ellie said, turning for the door. "Can you give Baraquiel a call and tell him to bring anyone who's free – we need to get this analysed."

He followed her out of the kitchen, peeling off for the living room as she walked to the front door.

Tamsin stood on the porch, her eyes huge as she looked at Ellie.

* * *

An hour later, Dean and Ellie stood in the warm, bright kitchen of Garth and Tamsin's house, staring at Garth's arms.

From fingertip to just below the elbow, both arms had turned black. Above the ragged line of solid colour, spots and patches of black dotted the thin arms. Ellie could see more, spread across his chest, visible in the vee of his shirt, and reaching up his neck. She sat down at the table slowly, and reached out for his hand, hearing Dean's sharply indrawn breath behind her as she touched the skin.

"Ellie –"

"It's not contagious," Tamsin said quickly, looking at him. "I've been trying everything to get them off, or even slow their progress, and it hasn't affected me."

Under her fingertips, Ellie could feel the roughness of his skin. She looked closer and saw that the colour wasn't just a change in pigmentation of the skin; fine scales covered Garth's hands, almost as smooth and supple as skin, but thickening around the fingers.

She turned his hand over. Over the palm the scales were slightly larger, and when she lifted the hand to peer closely at the fingers, she could see the beginnings of ridges forming along the digit, curving around the fingers. She let go of his hand and looked at Tamsin.

"When did it start?"

"Three weeks ago we noticed the first spot. It was tiny, no bigger than a mole and we, neither of us paid too much attention to it." She put her hand on Garth's shoulder, squeezing it slightly. "A couple more spots like it appeared, randomly, not close together. Then last week it started to accelerate." She looked at Ellie. "His hands, they weren't this bad last night, still just patches here and there."

"Are the patches all over now?" Ellie looked at Garth who nodded unhappily. "Tamsin, what have you tried?"

"Everything I could think of – herbal pastes, tonics, teas, spells, cleansing, prayer … I'm out of options and I still don't know what's causing it."

"Alright Garth, what have you been up to?" Dean looked at the man, pulling out the chair beside Ellie and sitting down.

"Nothing." Garth looked at him, eyes wide and helpless. "The skinwalker job, uh, before that there was some cleaning up on the vampire nest that Dwight and Katherine took down. I did a couple of hauntings last year, nothing out of the ordinary." He shook his head.

"Further back, any cases that were dealing with something else – witchcraft, cursed objects, shamanism … anything that was tricky, or that you weren't sure was finished?" Ellie leaned forward, looking at him.

"Well, uh …" He flicked a glance at Tamsin. "There was a case, in Alabama."

"And?" Dean repressed the desire to slap him. Garth took his own time to recount cases.

"Well, it was just a haunting." He looked down at his arms, resting on the table. "I stumbled across it by accident. A group of people who were being haunted by one of their family."

"A group of people?" Ellie frowned.

"Ah … a group of Romani," Garth clarified reluctantly.

Dean glanced sideways at Ellie. She was staring at Garth in disbelief.

"Garth … you didn't burn the remains, did you?" she asked softly. He nodded, looking up at her.

"Oh … god." She leaned back in her chair. Dean looked from her to Garth and back.

"What?"

"The Romani have their own rituals for taking care of their dead," Ellie said, rubbing her forehead with the heel of her hand as she stared at Garth. "You've been cursed, Garth."

Tamsin looked at her. "Why would it take so long to start?"

"No idea." Ellie looked at her. "But that –" She pointed at Garth's arms, "– is definitely a curse. How long ago?"

"Uh … four years."

"Four years? Are you kidding me?" Dean stared at him. "How the hell are we going to find a bunch of gypsies after four years?"

* * *

"How is it that he's still alive? Someone drop him on his head when he was a baby?" Dean muttered as they walked back up the road. "Four fucking years?"

"Relax. We'll find them." Ellie slipped her arm through his. "Is Sam doing anything right now?"

"No." Dean attempted to let go of his annoyance with a gusty exhale. "No, they're staying put."

"Good, that solves one problem." Ellie sighed.

He flicked an oblique glance at her. "How are we going to find a bunch of itinerants after four years?"

She smiled. "Oh, there are ways."

"You like being mysterious." The statement came out accusingly, and she laughed.

"Yeah, I do," she agreed. "How has it taken you this long to work that out?"

He snorted as they turned up into his brother's driveway, and walked to the house.

* * *

"How the hell are you going to find them?" Sam looked at Dean incredulously. His brother slid an 'I-told-you-so' look at Ellie.

"I've got some people we can see, that shouldn't be a problem." Ellie glanced at Tricia. "The real problem is that I don't know how long it'll take us – to find them, to get there and to negotiate a payment to lift the curse."

Sam and Dean exchanged surprised looks. "Pay them?"

"I thought we were going to gank 'em?"

Ellie looked at him. "I think we have enough curses on this family without adding more, don't you?"

Dean looked away, shrugging. Sam hid a grin at his discomfort. It was one of the things he really liked about his sister-in-law, her ability to stop his brother in his tracks with one, inarguable sentence.

"It doesn't matter, Ellie. John and Rosie can stay as long as you need." Tricia pulled the conversation back on track. "Marc and Laura have got their introduction to kindy thing twice a week now, so it's not even a problem with drop-offs and pick-ups."

"Thanks, Trish." Ellie let out a soft exhale and set her cup on the end table beside her. "You two need a break anytime … we'll repay the favour."

Tricia grinned at her. "I'll definitely take you up on that." She slid a sideways look at Sam, one brow arched. Sam grinned back at her, and Dean looked between the two of them, rolling his eyes.

"Thank you, you two – my brother having sex, now seared into my brain."

Sam snorted. "It's a beautiful, natural act, Dean. And we've got three kids – how'd you think that happened?"

Ellie looked at Tricia, who shook her head.

"When do you want to drop the kids off?"

Ellie glanced at Dean. "We should be able to get what we need organised by dark. Maybe just before dinner?"

"That'll be fine." Tricia stood up, picking up the empty cups. "You don't sound all that worried about this curse, Ellie?"

"No. Garth was an idiot to not let the family handle the burial in their own way, but I think we'll be able to negotiate something that'll get him off the hook."

Sam looked at her curiously. "What's he turning into?"

"I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think a raven." Ellie followed Tricia out of the room, answering over her shoulder.

She heard Dean's snort behind her.

* * *

Ellie zipped up the small canvas bag and tucked John's teddy in between the handles.

"But Mommy, you said – you said I could stay at Tommy's when you went away again!" John's plaintive wail filled the bedroom.

Dean picked him up, sitting on the edge of the bed. "No, John. Your mom said that we needed to talk to Tommy's parents first, and get to know them before you could have a sleepover."

"But you had lots of time to do that!"

"Yeah, not really." Dean sighed. It didn't matter how nice or normal or friendly Tommy's folks were, he thought tiredly. There was no way any of the kids were staying anywhere unprotected for the foreseeable future. Cas hadn't returned, and the warning the demon had given them still brought uneasy images to his dreams. "When we get back, we'll go and see 'em, okay? Maybe Tommy can come and stay here for a weekend?"

He glanced up at Ellie, catching her slight nod. She wasn't prepared to let them stay anywhere else either.

"Okay." John's bottom lip stuck out. "But you have to promise."

"I promise," Dean said, hoping like hell he wasn't promising something impossible.

"You too, Mom." John swivelled on Dean's lap to glare at his mother. Ellie nodded.

"I promise, John," she said, picking up the bag. "Come on, Uncle Sammy's waiting."

Dean stood up as John slid off and raced out of the room ahead of them, his path downstairs defined clearly by the thunder of his small feet.

"Any ideas on how we're gonna handle this when we get back?" He took John's bag from her and followed her out of the room.

Ellie shook her head. "We're going to have to get sociable, I think. Maybe a couple of dinner parties, or barbeques or something to get to know these people."

"One look at our home décor and they're gonna think we're wackos, Ellie." Dean glanced up at the Aramaic devil's trap painted above the front door as they came into the front hall.

"Yeah. Well, we'll think about it." She shrugged and looked around for Rosie. Sam stood by the front door, reaching out to take John's bag from his brother.

"She's in the car already, Ellie. Laura wanted to show her some doll or something," Sam said, seeing her distracted look.

"Oh, okay." They followed Sam out to the car, getting John settled and kissing them both goodbye. The engine started and Sam pulled out of the turnaround, driving slowly through the gate and down the road.

Dean looked at his wife's profile as she watched the taillights turn out of view.

"What's wrong?"

Ellie looked at him, her face screwing up. "I thought they'd have a lot more freedom, that we'd be able to just keep hunting and they could have a nearly normal childhood." She shook her head.

"It has been like that, mostly." He put his arms around her.

"Until we find out that they're targeted – and we don't even know by what, or why."

He ducked his head, resting his cheek against hers. "We'll find out, and we'll stop them. And then things can go back to normal."

Her arms tightened around his ribs. "Promise?"

"Hell, yeah." He lifted his head and looked down at her. "We'll figure it out, Ellie. We've done it before, we can do it again."

* * *

_**I-84**_

The rumble of the black car's engine was a soothing backdrop to Dean's thoughts. He glanced at Ellie, curled into the corner and sleeping, her jacket draped over one shoulder. They'd left home just at dusk, and had almost reached Idaho. He thought he could do another couple of hours before he'd need sleep.

Despite what he'd told her, he wasn't all that sure that they'd be able to find out who or what was behind the latest threats to their family. The changes in the monster populations didn't seem to be connected with the little they knew of the nephilim. In terms of odds, they were stacked against the two events being unconnected, but so far nothing Frank had come up with had shown any links between them.

In comparison to his own childhood, or Ellie's, for that matter, their children were having a normal upbringing. But comparisons weren't good enough for either of them. It might be easier in a few years, when they could explain more about the life to John and Rosie, or it might make it that much harder. He had vivid memories of life getting harder once Sam had known the full extent of what his father did.

His brows drew together as he stared at the road in front of him. He wasn't sure what to do. No one would say anything if he and Ellie decided to quit. It probably wouldn't help matters much, he thought sourly. Whether they were actively hunting or trying to hide, it had never seemed to make much difference to what found them.

He shifted in the seat, stretching his back. Maybe it didn't make that much difference. Most kids found something to bitch about in their childhoods. Too much money, not enough. The wrong neighbourhood, city, county, state, whatever. People got on with their lives no matter how they grew up, at least the strong ones did. Maybe he and Ellie just needed to make sure that John and Rosie knew how much they were loved, understood that a good life demanded hard work and at least some sacrifices, and knew how to take care of themselves. He sighed. He still didn't know, exactly, what constituted his vague dreams of a normal life. It wasn't a nine-to-five job and worrying about the household bills. It wasn't being surrounded by people who had no idea of what lived in the dark. It wasn't living with lies and obfuscations and wondering if, despite all that he could do to protect those he loved, something would still come.

He liked living where they lived. He liked waking up in the mornings, in his own bed, with Ellie curled against him and an idea of what he needed to do that day. He liked talking to Sam about … everything, from the planning of a hunt to the best way to build a cubby house. He liked playing poker every now and then with Twist and Dwight, and seeing Frank finally starting to relax a little, under the patient attentions of Rona, the waitress at the Acorn. He liked watched his kids play with Sam's kids in the huge yard, the four of them coming in at midday, or on dark, covered in mud or windswept or bright red with cold, their high chatter filling the house, and their unself-conscious love filling the spaces in his heart.

He was always aware that this life could end in an instant, never more so than when he and Ellie were driving toward a job. But the same could be said for any life. Accidents happened in normal people's lives. They might be tipping the odds with what they did, but he thought it was balanced by their skill, their knowledge, the preparation and care that went into the jobs.

On normal hunts, he amended to himself. On the occasions when the world decided it needed their help, the odds got considerably worse. They were still alive, but it had been a close thing on a couple of those occasions. He shook off the spectres of his memories, forcing them away. Every instinct he had told him that what was coming, still on the horizon for the moment but gaining speed and strength, was going to be another one of those times when the odds against them kept going up.

He looked up as the sign for Caldwell flashed by. It was just past midnight, and he'd been driving for a little over six hours. He'd stop and get a room. They'd make North Platte by tomorrow evening.

* * *

_**Afton, Iowa**_

Ellie turned the car off the gravel county road onto the driveway, easing her over the bumps as they crested the small hill and drove down between the trees to the farmhouse and buildings nestled into the small valley below.

The pop and crunch of the gravel under the tyres, and the dappled sunlight through the bare canopies over them marked the long shallow incline to the fields. As the trees drew back from the side of the road, they saw the wagons and caravans, painted in vividly bright colours against the new spring grass in the fields, and the pale blue smoke rising from a dozen fires lit close by them.

Dean frowned, staring at the round-roofed wagons as they trundled slowly past them, drawing the curious gazes of their inhabitants, tanned faces and raven-black hair and eyes, clothing as bright and varied as the vardos. A number of dogs raced toward them, their hysterically shrill barks echoing in the quiet valley.

"They don't still use those?" He looked at Ellie, gesturing to the vardos. Ellie grinned.

"Mostly, no. Some of the older people prefer them, and the gentle pace of the horses, but this family keeps them mostly for the tourists in the summer-time." She eased the car through the farm gate, and pulled up next to several other cars and pickups, nose in to the side wall of the stone and timber barn.

A tall, slender woman came out of the house as they opened their doors, long black hair drawn loosely back from her face, sloe-dark eyes sparkling.

"Ellie, oh my god!"

"Arinya, it's so good to see you again," Ellie dropped her bag and stepped into the other woman's embrace. "I'm sorry it's been awhile."

Arinya stepped from her, holding her hands and looking at her. "Yeah, you damned well should be – look at you! Oh, hips are wider, how many kids you got?"

Ellie laughed. "Only two." She turned around. "This is Dean … Winchester."

"Winchester?" Arinya smiled at him. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Dean stepped toward her, taking her offered hand, a half-formed question in his face as he registered the wording.

"Where is –?" Ellie looked around the yard.

A man shot around the corner of the barn, tall and dark-haired, green shirt half-pulled on, dark jeans and bare feet suggesting a rapid dressing. Dean felt his hand twitch toward the automatic in his jacket as he barrelled past and grabbed Ellie, arms closing tightly around her and lifting her from the ground.

"Hey," Dean said as the man dipped Ellie backwards, his mouth covering her in a kiss that was lasting far too long. "HEY!"

Arinya put her hand on Dean's arm, shaking her head. "Oh, let him get it out of his system, he'll only pine and sulk otherwise." Her eyes were full of laughter.

"Marco!" Ellie dragged in a breath as he allowed her to straighten up. "Goddamnit!"

"Ellie, I've missed you so much!" Marco took her hand between his own and held it against his chest. "Where have you been?"

She wrinkled her nose at him, pulling her hand free. "Running away from you, didn't Arinya tell you?"

He laughed and turned to Dean and Arinya, dropping his arm around the dark-haired woman's shoulders and smiling at Dean.

"I am Marco."

"Dean." Dean glowered at him, glancing at Ellie as she came to stand beside him. "Ellie's husband."

Marco's grin got wider. "Congratulations!"

"Where're Mica and Tomasino?" Ellie looked across at the fields. Marco laughed, turning away and pulling Arinya toward the house. Arinya shrugged, looking back over her shoulder.

"They're somewhere out there." She gestured to the fields and woods beyond the farm buildings. "But we have Zara, Pesha and Nico as well now."

Ellie and Dean followed them inside, Dean's arm dropping proprietarily over her shoulders. She looked up at him, her mouth curving up at one side.

"Don't worry about him, he's just overly dramatic."

"Yeah, well if he gets dramatic with you again, I'm gonna punch him in the face," he growled.

The interior of the farmhouse was warm and brightly lit, a riot of rich, deep colour from end to end, with shawls and blankets and throws covering most of the furniture, hand-knitted or embroidered, glowing in the golden light of the many lamps.

Ellie followed Arinya to the kitchen, feeling Dean close behind her.

"You've been busy," she commented, looking at the two toddlers and the baby sleeping oblivious through Marco's loud singing as he walked down the hall.

Arinya gave a deep, throaty laugh. "These winters … they're long." She pulled a couple of bottles from the cupboard and set them on the table, turning away and getting glasses.

"I'm thinking that you're not here for a social visit, Ellie." She gestured to the table as she poured dark wine into the glasses and set them out.

"Is Drina still with you?" Ellie sipped the wine, looking at Arinya as she sat down opposite them.

"Yes, just." Arinya made a face. "What do you need?"

"A name. A location." Ellie smiled at her. "The usual."

"Marco!" Arinya turned and yelled down the hallway. "Get Drina, tell her Ellie's here."

"As you wish, my love!" Marco's voice boomed from down the hall and the door slammed a moment later.

"So, what? One of the families?"

"Yeah. Four years ago, there was a camp in Alabama. One of the men died, and the tradition burial wasn't done for some reason. His spirit rose. A friend of ours burned the remains, and someone cursed him."

Arinya snorted. "I'm amazed he's still alive."

Dean rolled his eyes. "So're we."

"Drina will know." Arinya looked from Ellie to Dean. "So, you will stay with us tonight and we can catch up properly."

* * *

Drina was an ancient woman, wizened and seamed as a raisin, her skin almost coffee-coloured, her eyes barely visible beneath the thick dark brows and the folds and creases of skin surrounding them, her hair silver, still thick and long, and wound into a knot at the back of her head.

"Eleanora, you have been away for too long," she said, her voice deep and soft as she came into the kitchen on Marco's arm. "_Vy buly v bidi_."

Ellie stood up, smiling as she went to hug the old woman. "Yes, all kinds, but we made it through."

"We were watching you, in the earthstones, when Beng rose. I was very happy to see that you lived." She pulled back from the younger woman, tilting her head to look up at her as she shuffled to the table. "O Del is still looking after you."

Ellie sat down as Drina settled herself, pulling the ruby-coloured shawl more closely around her shoulders, her hands curling around the cup of black tea that Arinya placed in front of her.

"What do you want to know, child?"

"There was a family, camped near Decatur in Alabama, four years ago," she started. Drina nodded.

"Yes, Aljenicato. I know the family. They were there for the year. There was trouble with them, the death of a man and the desecration of his body."

"That'll be the one," Ellie said dryly. "The man who burned the remains is a friend. He was cursed by the elder of the Kris. We need to find them and make a payment to lift the curse."

Drina pursed her lips and nodded. "It is possible. They have been in Georgia for the last year, a small town in the south called Ocilla." She looked at Arinya. "Vellos is the head of the family, but it is his mother, Jofranka, who holds the power. She is formidable, that one."

"Will she accept payment for the misunderstanding?" Ellie asked.

The old woman's mouth curved upwards. "Yes, I think so. But it will be a particular thing and it will be in addition to the favour, you understand?"

Ellie nodded, feeling Dean's questioning gaze on her. "I have four blood-red flawless rubies. Will this be sufficient for the payment?"

Drina cackled suddenly, throwing her head back in amusement. "Oh yes, Eleanora. That will be sufficient."

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Tricia walked along the upstairs hall, quietly opening the doors and checking on John and Marc, then Laura and Rosie as she moved toward the nursery for Adrienne's feed. Somewhere downstairs, she could hear Sam's footsteps as he checked the house, locking up and looking over their protection. The routine was deeply instilled now and neither could have gone to bed without following it any more than they could get in the car without checking that a gear bag was tucked in the trunk.

She opened the door to the baby's room, the dim nightlight providing just enough illumination to see the furniture and the shape of the room. She could hear Adrienne's small baby laugh, rising softly from the inside of the crib, and see the tips of her daughter's fingers as she waved her chubby hands in the air, just visible over the rail.

She looked at the mobile above the crib and stopped.

_Maybe the window is open_, she thought, feeling her heartbeat pounding suddenly high in her chest. She walked to the windows, pushing aside the curtains. Every one of them was closed.

Turning back to the crib, she watched the mobile spinning slowly above Adrienne, the butterflies turning in lazy circles counter to the movement of the delicate wires supporting them.

She heard Sam's feet in the hall outside the room, saw the door push open a little as he came in. Her eyes, wide and fearful, met his. She watched his brow crease up as he looked from her face to the movement in his peripheral vision, watched his face smooth out as he registered what he was seeing.

The mobile stopped spinning. Adrienne's hands dropped below the level of the top bar of the crib, and Tricia hurried toward the crib as the baby made a small sound of discontent.

Sam sat rigidly on the side of the bed, looking at his wife. "No, tell me again, exactly what you saw."

"Sam, I've told – three times now – hearing it again doesn't change anything." Tricia stripped off her clothes, leaving them neatly folded over the chair near her side of the bed. "She's not a monster, and it's not demon blood. Psychic power has existed for thousands and thousands of years in the human race, you know that."

"Never proved, Trish, never acknowledged by scientific proof." Sam heard his voice deepening.

"Doesn't matter if it's been proved or not." She walked to the bed, pulling back the covers. "You used telekinesis at great need. You saw what Max could do."

"That was the demon blood!"

"Was it?" She looked up at him as he turned around to face her. "I'm not so sure about that. You weren't drinking it then, the abilities you had were developing on their own. And anyway," she added, turning on her lamp, "it might not even be from you. Uncle Marcus said that his grandmother could shut doors in her house just by thinking about it. Maybe it's from my side, and skipped a generation."

He shook his head stubbornly, leaning down to pull off his boots. "This is happening right after we find out that our kids are targeted by something? I don't believe in coincidences, Trish."

"Alright, calm down." She wriggled down as he dropped his clothes on the floor and got into the bed next to her. "Let's just take it slowly, and do some research before we go into panic mode."

He flipped off his lamp and slid his arm around her. "You looked pretty panicky when I came into the room."

"I know. But I've had time to adjust, to think about it." She curled against him, her arm curving over his ribs. "You need to do that too. We'll find out what's happening, Sam. And I'm positive it's not going to be as bad as you're afraid of."

He tightened his hold on her, closing his eyes. Behind the darkness, he saw his brother, face rigid with tightly held control, staring at him as he'd told him about moving the dresser.

* * *

_**Afton, Iowa**_

Dean wiped his bowl with a hunk torn off the freshly baked loaf, stomach contentedly full. The children had eaten an hour before, and been sent off to bed, their faces filled with curiosity at the strangers in the house. Well, one stranger, he corrected himself, the two older children clearly remembered Ellie.

Ellie had told him that Arinya and Marco were not as traditionally minded as the older people in their clan. The Romani were extremely religious, in a similar way to the Orthodox Jews, living their lives from the Old Testament in a rigid and unbending fashion. But the younger people in the clans were more relaxed, slowly bending the old rules and integrating more with the _Gadje_, all those who were non-Romani.

He looked up at Arinya stopped beside him, taking his bowl and refilling his glass.

"Thanks," he said. "That was delicious."

"We feed our men well. They perform better." Arinya smiled at him, glancing across the room. Marco and Ellie were looking through a book of curses. "She told us about you many times, I'm glad you are together."

He felt his eyebrows rise at that. "Uh, what'd she say?"

She shook her head, her warm, deep laugh flowing over him. "Oh no, those are her secrets, not mine."

He shrugged. "When did you meet her?"

Arinya sat down next to him. "The first time, Michael brought her." She glanced at him, feeling his involuntarily tension, seeing the muscle flex under the fabric of his clothes. "Michael was half-Romani, his mother was quite powerful. You feel the bite of jealousy for no reason, I can tell you that she was never in love with him. She was never in love with anyone, except you."

He looked down at the table. "What makes you so sure about that?"

"Most of us have some kind of gift, from O Del," she said quietly, reaching out for his hand and taking it in hers. "Mine is to be able to see into people."

He looked at her as she closed her eyes, her fingers tightening around his. "Your life has been so full of pain, of loss and doubt. Yet you still have courage, and hope, and so much love."

He cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand from hers uncomfortably. She opened her eyes and looked at him, smiling. "When I met her, she didn't believe in love. At all. She was like a cat. Affectionate but inside she didn't care for other people, barely even for herself. Michael was Drina's grandson, and I know that Drina hoped that there would be something between them, but there never was."

She glanced back to the bowed head of the other woman. "After he died, she came back. To tell Drina, to apologise. We didn't see her again for another two years. And the second I saw her, I knew that she'd found love. She refused to admit it, of course, but it was there." She tilted her head as she looked at him. "It was you, you know. When I finally got her to admit to it, she told me about you, about the way your family found her, when she was a girl, about hunting together – I didn't need my gift to see how it was with her when she talked about you."

He swallowed, staring at her.

"Your name, your father's name, is not unknown to us," she continued. "Drina was glad when he was freed. And when you killed the demon. Azazel was responsible for many of the persecutions of our people, his war-mongering and meddling setting off the worst of them."

She picked up the bowl and stood. "You will always be welcomed among us for that, Dean … Winchester."

* * *

The bed was small by American standards, and soft, the mattress filled with feathers and down. Dean looked at the track of the moonlight as it came through the small window, laying a silvery beam across the end of the bed and rumpled pile of quilts, over the floor to the opposite wall.

Ellie's friends were, as a general rule, bizarre, he thought, so far from his experience that he felt like he was on a different planet. But they were, he had to admit, people that he was drawn to, nonetheless. And he thought Sam would've enjoyed meeting these people as well. They were strong, and lived their lives by principles, understanding that more was out there than what could be seen in the brightness of day. They weren't hunters, but they were close – like Father Monserrat, like Andre, and Tatiana, that mad Russian woman Ellie had introduced him to last year – close enough to know about their world.

His father had been known to nearly all of the friends of hers that he'd met, giving him a strange sense that he had connections to them as well. There had been a lot that John Winchester had not shared with his sons. More than he'd realised.

He shifted a little on the soft mattress, feeling his shoulder and hip sink deeper. Ellie opened her eyes, looking at him.

"What's up?" she asked softly.

"Can't relax – this bed's too soft," he murmured back, pushing himself out of the hollow in the mattress until he was leaning back against the pillows behind him.

She sat up, looking at him for a moment, then moved closer, her thigh swinging over his, settling herself on his legs. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head, his hands moving up her thighs, curving around her hips. "Nothing, specifically."

He lifted his head as her lips brushed over his, and a flutter of desire stirred inside.

"Something is," she murmured against his mouth, "you can usually sleep … unless …"

She opened her eyes and looked into his. "Are you having nightmares?"

His gaze cut away. "No, not really nightmares."

"Are you trying to be mysterious?"

He laughed, in spite of himself, looking away. "No."

"What are the dreams?" She turned his face back to hers.

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Just, confusing, you know … bits and pieces that don't make sense." He looked at her frown. "Don't worry about it, it's probably just a side-effect of not knowing what the hell is going on."

"Undoubtedly." She shivered as his hand slid lower. "But … uh …"

"I can think of better things to do right now than talk," he said, dipping his head, his teeth grazing down her neck.

She shifted and he sucked in a breath, his heart slamming hard against his breastbone, his arms wrapping tightly around her as her soft heat enclosed him.

* * *

_**I-24 S Tennessee**_

"Tamsin, how's he doing?" Ellie leaned against the car, her cell pressed tight to her ear as she tried to hear over the rumble of the trucks coming and going from the parking lot.

"Good, okay. We'll be in Georgia in another few hours." She listened to the barely contained panic in the other woman's voice. "No, no matter what's happening, we'll be able to reverse it. Yes, I promise."

Dean shifted the two big sacks of food to one arm as he walked toward her, brows drawing together as he noticed the lines of tension surrounding her mouth. He opened the car door and put the food inside, catching the last of the conversation.

"Tamsin, hon, just keep him inside and locked in the room, alright?" Ellie pulled in a deep breath. "By tomorrow this is going to be over. I know how scary it is, but you need to stay focussed, look after Henry and not worry about Garth, okay?"

"Okay. I'll call you as soon as we're done. Alright." She closed the cell and tucked it back in her pocket, rubbing the heel of her hand over her face tiredly.

"She okay?" Dean looked at her.

"No. She has a giant raven in her guest room." She slid into the car. "She's not okay."

Dean shut the door and walked around the car, opening the driver's door and getting in. "But we can fix it, right?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that once Jofranka reverses the curse, Garth'll be fine." She opened the sack closest to her and lifted out a burger, unwrapping it and taking a huge bite.

"I thought gypsy curses were unbreakable, once you were cursed that was it?" He rummaged in the sack beside him and pulled out the sub, grabbing a handful of serviettes to dam the leakage.

"You do know that Stephen King writes fiction, right?" She looked sideways at him. "He's not an authority on the supernatural."

He made a face at her, taking a bite and tucking it into his cheek. "Yeah, smart-ass."

"There aren't many families left who actually have the powers that the Romani used to," she said, taking another bite. "Maybe four or five, and they all have different gifts."

"Whaddaya mean, gifts?"

"Psychic power, mostly. Arinya, her clan, they have what you might call passive gifts – telepathy, psychometry, far-seeing." Ellie wiped her chin with the serviette and tucked the wrappings into the bag. "The Aljenicato have more active gifts. Jofranka was supposed to be renowned for her ability to precognitate, see into the future very accurately." She shrugged. "Most of the old ones are dying out, and the next generation isn't as committed to the life."

"That sounds like a good thing," Dean said, licking his fingers. "Less work for us."

Ellie picked up her coffee. "Yeah, not that I've had to do much with them in that way. They keep to themselves as much as possible."

"How did you meet Arinya?"

She looked at him. "Drina was Michael's grandmother. He took me there."

"And what's the story with Marco?" he asked.

Ellie laughed. "Some of the Romani families keep to the biblical text of a brother's wife going to the brother if a man dies. Marco is Michael's fraternal twin. He liked the idea, although Drina knew that it was never like that between Michael and I. Arinya finally convinced him that I was in love with someone else, and that I'd never bear him enough children to make it worth his while in any case."

"Huh." He half-turned in the seat, looking at her. "And he's still feeling that way?"

"No, I told you he likes to over-dramatise everything," Ellie said, wrinkling her nose. "He's convinced he should make Arinya jealous to keep her from finding someone else. It's a … running joke between them; they both know they're perfect for each other."

"How far to Ocilla?" He turned back to the wheel, starting the engine. He didn't understand the impulse to check what Arinya had told him, and he felt as if he shouldn't've, in some way. But at the same time, Ellie had told him everything about it, obviously not in the slightest bit worried about how it had looked – at least how it had looked to him.

"Another six hours." She squashed the bags together and tossed them into the trash can as they pulled out of the lot. "We'll find a motel, go and see them in the morning."

* * *

_**Ocilla, Georgia**_

The land was flat as they drove past the town, heading west along the highway. Pastures filled with rank, green grass, tilled fields, clumps of evergreens crowding the hidden waterways, and deciduous trees misted in spring's first leaf growth, bright and hopeful, lined both sides of the road.

"So what's the plan?" Dean flexed his hands on the wheel as they left the houses behind and farmland enclosed them.

"We'll be polite, eat and drink whatever is offered, and request that the curse be lifted for a price since it was a misunderstanding on the part of Garth, and not a deliberate insult to the family." Ellie stretched out on her side.

"That's it?" He shot a look at her.

"That's it."

The camp of the Aljenicato was easy to find, two dozen caravans in various states of wear and disrepair gathered near the edge of the field, the blue smoke of their campfires rising straight into the still morning air. Dean pulled into the field slowly, wincing as the car bumped its way across the lumpy grass.

They got out and waited by the car, as several men began to walk toward them.

"What do you want, _gadje_?"

Dean looked at the man who stopped in front of him. He was a couple of inches under his height, but broad-shouldered and powerfully muscled under the thin, grimy singlet he wore.

"We would like to visit with Vellos and Jofranka," Ellie said quietly.

The man's eyes narrowed as he looked at her, lip curling contemptuously. "Women do not speak unless they are spoken to."

Ellie's brow arched delicately as she smiled at him. "It is a matter of a curse and a payment."

He scowled at her, and Dean realised that she'd boxed the man in with those words. He couldn't ignore her, couldn't ignore them now.

"Come." He turned on his heel and strode away, heading for a caravan on the other side of the encampment.

They followed in silence, flanked by the other men. All of the men carried knives, sheathed on their belts, or the hilts protruding from their boot tops. Ellie had insisted that he leave his Colt in the car. His knife, Ruby's knife, lay flat against his ribs, in the leather sheath sewn into his jacket.

The man stopped at the door of the largest RV, an ancient and battered-looking vehicle, stepping back as he gestured abruptly to it.

Ellie stepped forward and knocked. She looked up as the doorway was filled by a large man, reeking of alcohol, the thin singlet he wore almost grey with dirt, loose-fitted dark brown trousers held up by a pair of suspenders over his shoulders.

"Yes?" He looked down at her, his gaze flicking behind her to Dean, then to his men.

"My name is Eleanor. This is Dean," she said, half-turning. "I would like to speak to you and your mother about a curse."

Vellos laughed, the men gathered around behind them joining in after a moment.

"A curse." He wiped his mouth, black eyes staring at Ellie's face. "Come, we can talk about curses, if you wish."

Ellie stepped up and walked through the narrow doorway. Dean stepped up and found the man blocking the doorway.

"Just her. Not you. You wait here."

"No." He tried to see past the man, into the dark interior of the van. "No way."

Vellos put his hand out, shoving back against Dean's chest. "She is fine. You stay here."

In the interior of the van, Ellie grimaced. "Dean, it's alright. Just wait there."

"No!" She heard the anger in his voice as he got closer to the door again.

Vellos looked down at him. "Wife, yes? She is safe. You stay out here. You are … impure … to be in same space as my mother."

Dean hesitated. "Ellie? You alright?"

Vellos turned slightly, and Ellie looked down at Dean through the gap between the man and the doorframe.

"Yeah. I'm fine. It's alright."

He nodded reluctantly and watched her turn away. Vellos nodded and closed the door. Dean turned around, staring at the loose circle of men surrounding him. After a few moments, the man who'd led them to the van shrugged and walked away, the others drifting off as well.

_Goddamn it_, Dean thought. _Goddamn it to hell_.

* * *

"Drina sent you here, didn't she?"

The voice, old and cracked and wavering, came from the darkness and Ellie looked around, finally seeing the woman seated in the banquette next to the small table. She was tiny, hidden beneath layers of clothing and shawls and blankets, her hair still black as a raven's wing, her face creased and seamed and lined until the features had almost disappeared.

"Yes."

"Sit, sit." A small claw-like hand emerged from under the wrappings to gesture at the seat opposite. "Vellos, make tea."

"Yes, Mama." The man turned away, and filled the electric jug with water, standing in the cramped kitchenette near the front of the van.

"A curse you are here to discuss. The _gadje_ who burned up Ranjen."

"Yes." Ellie looked at Jofranka. "It was a mistake, not a deliberate insult against your family. He didn't know the traditions."

The old woman nodded slightly. "Ignorance kills as readily as O Del."

"Yes."

"You want to bargain, for the curse to be lifted?" Silent laughter ran through the words.

"If there a price that you will accept, I will bargain," Ellie said slowly.

"What have you brought me?"

Ellie opened her bag, taking out the small black silk bag and opening the drawstring. She tipped the bag up and the stones dropped onto her palm, gleaming dully in the dim light.

"Vellos! Light here, I can't see what the young woman has brought." Jofranka's tone was peevish. Ellie kept her face expressionless, but she thought that Jofranka was in pain, a lot of it.

The man brought two cups of strong black tea to the table and turned on the overhead lamp, the incandescent bulb throwing a murky but strong light over the table. The rubies flashed deep in their hearts, and Ellie heard his sharply indrawn breath whistling between his teeth.

Jofranka looked at the stones and then up at her. "You've dealt with the Rom before, girl?"

"Once or twice."

"The payment is satisfactory." Her hand emerged from beneath the blanket again and she lifted it, spitting into the palm. Ellie nodded, lifting her own right hand and spitting into the palm, and taking the old woman's hand in her own. "I will lift the curse." She nodded at the cups on the table. "Drink the tea."

Ellie picked up the cup, seeing the crystals of sugar swirling at the bottom of the cup, through the dark amber liquid.

"There is the favour," the old woman said, sipping at the hot tea. "You understand this?"

"Yes, I understand." She looked at Jofranka consideringly. "You are in pain."

"Yes. I am old." She smiled suddenly at Ellie, gold gleaming from between her thin lips. "How old do you think I am, girl?"

"I couldn't imagine," Ellie said, dropping her gaze to the tea in her cup.

"Diplomatic." Jofranka laughed, her chest hitching as the laugh turned into a coughing fit. "I will be one hundred and eighty-three this year. And I have no one to pass on my gift to." Her gaze slid accusingly toward her son.

Ellie watched her warily. The favour, extracted from the Gadje on any encounter with the Romani, could not be against her will. It could not put her life or those she loved into any kind of danger. It had to be freely offered and with an easy heart. She didn't trust the old woman sitting across from her any more than she would have trusted a demon, but those were the rules binding the transaction, and she would have to hope that Jofranka would abide by them.

"The sons of the Grigori are rising, this you know, yes?" Jofranka leaned forward across the table, staring at her.

Ellie nodded.

"When they do, they will wipe everyone out," the old woman's voice cracked, becoming soft and breathless. "They have called the oldest goddess, they have bid her walk the earth and tend her children."

_The oldest goddess?_ Ellie strained to hear Jofranka's words.

"They are arrogant in their belief that they are strong. Stronger than their fathers. Stronger than humankind. But they are not, not strong enough to control what they have called, not strong enough to build the circle," she said, looking up at Ellie with bright eyes. "They need two more."

"There are only seven," Ellie whispered to her, the small crease appearing between her brows as she struggled to make sense of what Jofranka was telling her. "They have only ever been seven."

"But nine holds the power to build the circle."

She slumped back into her corner of the banquette, eyes closing as pain struck her. Ellie waited, watching her bent and misshapen hands curl together.

"The favour …," Jofranka opened her eyes and looked at her. "I need you to take something of mine, take it and keep it safe, keep it guarded."

"What?"

Jofranka laughed, the sound wheezing at the end. "Does it matter? It will not harm you or yours. It is … inert … but it is important and it must be kept safe."

"Alright," Ellie agreed reluctantly.

"Vellos will come for it, when the time is right." She leaned back against the wall, her breath rasping in her throat. "Until then, keep it locked away and let nothing near it."

She reached into the folds of her clothing, scrabbling for something. When her hand emerged again, there was a small golden locket in it, held by a length of fine gold chain. She extended her hand and Ellie held open the silk drawstring bag in which she'd brought the rubies, careful not to let her skin touch the necklace.

"This is the favour. You cannot forget. You cannot betray me."

"This is the favour. This will remain safe and guarded with me until your son comes for it." Ellie nodded, tucking the silk bag into her backpack.

The old woman's hand slid across the table to take Ellie's, the fingers surprisingly strong as she held it, turning it over, tracing over the palm.

"There is a blessing." She looked up into Ellie's face. "And there will be a tragedy. You will be strong enough."

Ellie felt a tingle in her fingers and pulled her hand away. "Why did you tell me that?"

"Because things happen for a reason, even when no reason can be found. And you still have far to go." Jofranka's eyes closed, her small body curling into the corner.

Ellie stood up and pulled her backpack out after her. She looked at Vellos, standing by the van's door.

"We're done."

He nodded and opened the door.

Dean looked up, relieved to see Ellie come out, step down beside him. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the chalky pallor of her face.

"You okay?"

She nodded, walking away from the trailer to the car without looking back. The men of the camp had gathered again, but they weren't following, just standing by the vans and watching them leave.

"What happened?" he said in a low voice.

"I'll tell you later," she answered him tiredly. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

_**Jackson, Mississippi**_

"That's good, keep using the comfrey, it'll probably help a lot with loosening the feathers," Ellie said, wandering back to the room's kitchen counter to grab a couple of glasses.

"Trish, slow down …" Dean said, lifting the gear bag onto the bed as he tried to hold the tiny cell between his ear and shoulder.

Ellie put the glasses on the table, opening the bottle one-handed. "Can he talk yet?"

"Sam? What's going on?"

"No, it should all just come off over the next couple of days." Ellie poured an inch of whiskey into each glass. "No, she didn't mention the time-delay."

Dean sank onto the edge of the bed, hunching over slightly as he pressed the cell tighter to his ear. "Did you check for EMF?"

"Alright, we'll be back in a couple of days. Just … yeah, hot baths, and … yeah, the comfrey. See you then." Ellie closed the phone and put it into her jacket pocket, sitting down at the table and picking up a glass.

"Okay, what about sulphur?" Dean shook his head. "I know you know this, Sam, I'm just trying to eliminate crap, okay?"

He looked up at Ellie, eyes dark and face drawn as he listened to his brother. "No, a couple more days … yeah – listen – call Cas. Ask him."

He closed the phone with a snap and shoved it into the pocket of his coat, rubbing a hand over his face.

"What?" Ellie asked worriedly.

"Adrienne." Dean got up, walking to the table and picking up the glass, swallowing half in the first mouthful. "She … uh … apparently she moved the mobile over her crib." He looked at her, dropping into the chair next to the table. "With her mind."

Ellie's brows shot up. "Really?"

He frowned at the tone of her voice. "Yeah. You don't sound surprised."

"Well, I am, a bit," she said. "But Marcus' family on his mother's side had some pretty strong psychic abilities – he told me about them, said they skipped the males, went down the female line. I'm sure Trish knew about that." She leaned toward him. "Is Sam freaking out?"

"Of course he's freaking out!" Dean scowled at the glass. "He finally got rid of all his freaky stuff and now his three month old daughter has it."

"Dean, settle." Ellie reached across to grip his arm. "People do have these abilities; they're not limited to demon poisoning."

"We've never come across any who could do it without the blood, Ellie," he said, draining the rest of the whiskey. "Sam's didn't get really strong until he was guzzling the stuff."

Ellie frowned slightly. "Actually, that's not true. Sam – and all the others – their abilities were stronger before he started drinking the blood. He said that in Cold Oak, that girl …"

"Ava," he supplied irritably.

"Ava could control the demons and she wasn't drinking the blood. Those were her own powers – the same as the two guys who had mental domination."

"They were kick-started by Azazel, when those kids were six months old," he growled, picking up the bottle and pouring himself another shot.

"Yeah, but that was it. Maybe that turned something on, something that was already there, but it didn't develop it – they all developed those powers by using them."

"Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?"

"Better, I think," she said mildly. "I don't know how you got your panties in such a twist over psychic ability, Dean – it's a part and parcel of human nature since the beginning."

He looked down at the table. "You didn't see it, Ellie. Didn't see Max with that gun, didn't see Andy, just making a simple suggestion and driving off in my car, didn't see Sam …"

"No. But I've seen a lot of people who have telekinesis, MD, pyrokinesis, telepathic ability … they're not monsters. They're just people with abilities that are different … you don't think someone who is gifted musically is a monster, or someone who can calculate huge numbers in their heads."

"Those abilities don't kill." He looked at her. "So you think it's a coincidence that Adrienne's started to show this … ability … now?"

She shook her head. "No. But I don't think it's indicative of something evil going on. Any more than I think that John and Rosie's ability to see clearly and draw what they see is indicative of something evil."

His breath hissed in. "Dammit, that's not the same thing, they're drawing!"

"It is the same thing, Dean, and you know it. It's manifesting as drawing because they're little kids and that's what they understand, but it's not going to stop with that – and you know that too," she said evenly, knowing how hard he'd tried to keep that knowledge from himself.

He sat staring at her, fingers curled tightly around his glass.

"Look, we know that something – most likely the nephilim – are looking for us, looking for you and Sam, looking for John and Rosie, and most likely for Marc, Laura and Adrienne as well." She raised a brow at him questioningly. "That's not for revenge, Dean. There's a real reason behind it, and the sooner we can figure out what that is – without going nuts with speculation – the sooner we're going to know how to protect them properly."

She watched him as he absorbed the words, fighting them, denying them … and then, his shoulders dropping slightly as he began to accept them, the tension draining slowly as his attention sharpened on her.

"Alright." His exhale was soft. "What did that old woman say about them?"

"She said that they were rising," Ellie said, closing her eyes and drawing the memory back. "They had raised the oldest goddess but they weren't strong enough to control her or to build the circle. The circle needed nine."

"More cryptic crap," he said, frustrated. "What did you think it meant?"

She shook her head. "The oldest goddess … that's Asase Ya, in Africa. Or possibly Ninhursag, in Sumeria. Both probably the same entity. She was - is, I guess - the Earth Goddess, the creator of humankind, of every living thing on the planet. She was worshipped for fertility, at planting and harvest. She took the souls of the dead and guided them to the next plane."

Dean frowned. "So maybe, this is the bitch who's responsible for the monster increases, the mutations?"

"Maybe." Ellie looked at the whiskey in her glass. "It would be within her ability, to cause mutations, increase the populations, and Jofranka was right, the firstborns wouldn't be able to control her, she has the power of every living thing at her disposal."

"God, this just keeps better," Dean looked at her. "How do we get rid of her?"

"I don't know." Ellie tossed back the rest of the whiskey. "We'll have to look for it, in the library."

"And the nephilim need two more to build this circle or whatever it is?"

"Well, that's the thing." She looked up at him. "There were only ever seven firstborn nephilim – there were only seven Watchers who fell to earth with God's blessing, to teach humankind. There can't be nine."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes hooded as he looked at her. "Do you know what she meant by building a circle?"

"No. I've never heard or read about any kind of prophecy or spell or anything to do with them building a circle." She put her glass on the table. "It might be somewhere in the library, but I wouldn't know where to start looking."

"Would the Watchers know? They were there."

"He might." She shrugged, tired suddenly of all the things they didn't know.

Dean watched her shoulders drop, and stood up, going around the table to her. "Let's just go to bed, forget about this tonight."

She smiled at him. "Can you?"

"With a bit of help, I think I might be able to put it out of my head for a few hours," he said, ducking his head to kiss her neck softly.

* * *

Ellie moaned at the feel of his fingers slipping over her, into her, his mouth tracing an aching path around her breasts, down her sides, teeth and tongue and lips making her throb unbearably and push harder against him.

Dean wondered how long he was going to be able to hold back, considering he'd almost lost it twice now. He wasn't sure what was different, only that he felt an urgency, verging on desperation, to be inside of her, as deep as he could get. He froze as she thrust her hips up again, shutting his eyes and trying to distance himself slightly from the ululation in his mind, feeling her ripple against his fingers, their sensitive nerve endings connected directly to his groin.

He pushed her legs apart, tasting her sweetness with its underlying musk and felt her whole body shudder deeply, his eyes flying open, seeing her hands clenched into fists, her lips parted, breath rasping between them, a series of snapshots that made him arch back and he couldn't wait another second, had the feeling she couldn't either.

She was deeply slick, furnace-hot, and the violent thrust of her hips pushed him through the tightness of swollen muscle, their tension thrumming around him, the sensation snatching at his control, taking his breath and strength as a groan fled his chest with the last of his air.

"Stop … don't … move," he whispered, holding her hips still with his hands, feeling that build-up in his pelvis, his nerve endings screaming at him. She looked at him through half-shut eyes, straining to move under him and shook her head wordlessly.

He thrust into her hard, felt her arch up under him, a long wave of pressure and heat and vibration rolling up him, and he was lost in it, her legs tight against him, her body milking him, leaving him husked out and unable to move as the tremors shook them.

He lifted his head slowly, looking at her. "What the fuck was that?"

"Describes it pretty well, I think," she agreed, her arm slipping around his neck.

"As much as I'd like to take all the credit for that, Ellie, that wasn't all me," he said, easing his weight off and curling his arms around when she wriggled up against him.

She gave him a gentle, exasperated smile. "Sure felt like all of you."

He smiled into her hair. There wasn't a lot that fazed her. It was one of the million of things that made them work so well, she could bring him back to reality when what he really wanted to do was panic. He thought of his niece, and the smile disappeared. Maybe Ellie was right … maybe Trish was right. Maybe it was a rare but normal part of the human genome, and some people could use it, most couldn't.

He heard her breathing change, shifting into the lighter pattern of sleep, and took a deep breath. He was exhausted, mind, body and soul. And they still had at least two more days on the road before they'd get home. He closed his eyes.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The dining room table was fully extended, the smooth polished surface covered in books, files, stacks of papers, manuscripts and texts, every chair taken. Dean looked up as Frank came in, an archive box filled with printouts in his arms. Frank raised an eyebrow as he caught Dean's gaze.

"Where do you want 'em?"

"What are they?" Dean asked warily. Frank gave him his humourless shark's grin.

"Search results for the specified noted agricultural change locations."

Dean gestured to the wall behind him. "There'll do."

They'd been searching for four days now, looking for any changes that would indicate the location of the goddess, the possible location of the firstborns, parapsychological data on metaphysical and psychic phenomena, the ongoing changes to the creatures that had been changing the most … Dean sighed. Multiple needles in a great fucking stack of needles.

Ellie had been right about the documentation of psychic abilities in humans. It was there, not a lot of it but enough to make the abilities of their children less frightening and more understandable. Sam had thrown himself into the data, hunting for other cases, for more information. He'd tested John, Rosie, Marc and Laura with the Zener cards on Ellie's suggestion, and all four children had been able to pick the symbols with a hundred percent accuracy in the first five minutes of the test, their accuracy dropping as the test went on longer. For kids under six years old, that had seemed in line with their ability to concentrate on a single activity.

The search for the goddess had been less successful. Frank had found dozens of locations that fit the search criteria, and at the moment, at least, it looked like the bitch was wandering around, not just in this country either. Random bursts of plant growth, sudden increases in births and deaths, record-breaking harvests and satellite photos showing crop growth and soil fertility increasing exponentially along with the other signs showed them clearly where the goddess had been, but unfortunately not where she was going.

And then there was the monster problem. Unexplained animal attacks, homicides and disappearances had lit up the federal law enforcement databases in the last four weeks, the increases in some states had the government seriously considering sending army units in to handle what they'd thought was an outbreak of lawlessness. Dean shook his head as he thought of the soldiers' reactions to what they were going to see. Unsurprisingly, the numbers of psych leave applications in local law enforcement agencies had skyrocketed as well.

Dwight and Katherine had taken Oran and Adina to Michigan, a few days after returning from Mississippi. Laney Pike led a small band of hunters up along the lakes and they'd been hunting wendigos over the border for months now. Twist had come home, thinner, tired-looking and shaken. He and Garth would be heading out to the southern states in a few days time to get a handle on what was going to be a big problem with rugaru, vampires and rawheads in a very short time.

On the plus side, Garth was no longer a bird, so he supposed that could be counted as a win. He'd looked around the room that Tamsin had locked her husband into, once the curse had really taken off, trying not to laugh at the piles of black feathers that still floated around in there, finding the deep, trilobed holes in the walls less funny. The only lasting side-effect of the whole business was that Garth had developed a liking for sunflower seeds, and carried them around with him everywhere now.

He looked down the table. Baraquiel and Talya had co-ordinated the Watchers and nephilim to search their records for information on the firstborn. He'd been surprised that none of the Watchers had any idea of where their children were, or what had become of them. They'd had a couple of thousand years to lose track, he guessed, but still, they were family.

Four boys, three girls. Chasina, daughter of Sariel. Chuma, son of Chazaquiel. Idra, son of Baraquiel. Lazio, son of Shamsiel. Kitra, daughter of Penemue. Maluch, son of Bezaliel, and Reuma, daughter of Araquiel. His ancestors as well, and Ellie's and all the hunters, according to Cas. Frank hadn't yet found any sign of them in any city in the US. He wondered distractedly if they would come and visit their fathers, if they knew that most of the Watchers were here.

"Hey." A voice said beside his ear. He looked up, seeing Ellie behind him.

"Hey, where've you been?"

"In the library." She glanced up the table and back to him. "Frank got another set of hits from the east coast. It's showing what may be the beginnings of a pattern of movement. We think we know where Asase will be next."

He looked at her, brows rising. "That's great. Why don't you sound more excited?"

"It's just a tentative guess, at best, right now." She shrugged. "And we don't have any way of dealing with her yet."

"It's a start," he said firmly, looking at her. "You look tired, are you alright?"

She nodded. "Yeah, just reading through those reports for hours, my eyes are sore. I did tell Frank to stop worrying about saving money on paper and use a bigger font. We're not going to be much use hunting her down if we're all blind from research."

He snorted. "Come on, let's get out of here for a while, go for a walk and get our long vision back."

He got up, taking her hand and they picked their way through the piles of books, papers and boxes that were stacked on the floor, along the walls and around the table, walking out to the hall.

Outside the wind rushed down the mountainside, shaking the branches and twigs. The air was fresh and cold, and the bright green of new spring growth misted the trees and ground. They turned left at the corner of the house, following the path up toward the forest. Neither saw the bright eyes in the high branches of the oak that marked the corner of the property, watching them as they walked away.

* * *

**END**


	8. Chapter 8 Wildling

**Chapter 8 Wildling**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Dean sat on the edge of Rosie's bed, looking at his daughter's huge eyes and wondering what the hell to do.

"Rosie, there's nothing that can get in here, the house is like a … like a … a castle, with the, uh, drawbridge up." He tried again.

Rosie shook her head. "No, Daddy – it _looks_ me."

"Looks _at_ me, sweetheart," he muttered distractedly.

"She's right, Dad," John said, and Dean to turned to see his son standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, his teddy dangling from one hand. "There's something in the garden."

His eyes were wide and his face as fearful as his sister's. Dean stood up and walked to the windows, checking the locks, the wax sigils over the glass, looking out and down into the dark garden below. He couldn't see anything, but he knew for sure that the perimeter alarm hadn't gone off.

"There's nothing there, guys," he said quietly, turning and going back to Rosie's bed. "It's safe here, safer than anywhere else in the world."

"John? What are you doing up?" Ellie stopped next to the little boy and looked over his head to Dean and Rosie. "You guys having a meeting?"

"Mommy, there's something in the garden, watching us!" John burst out, looking up at her.

From the bed, Rosie nodded hard, her eyes filling with tears. "Bad."

Ellie looked at Dean. His mouth twisted slightly as he shrugged. "I don't know. I can't see anything out there."

She walked to the bed, John's hand in hers and sat down, pulling him onto her knees. "Have you seen the bad thing?"

Rosie nodded straight away, John more reluctantly.

"What did it look like?" Ellie asked, her arms tightening around the boy.

"Sticks," Rosie said.

John glanced at his sister, then looked at Dean, nodding slowly. "Yeah, kind of. Like a little man made out of branches and twigs." He held up his hands, a little over a foot apart to show him the size. Dean frowned at the mental image.

"Where did you see him?"

"The old tree," Rosie pointed vaguely across the room. John shook his head.

"I've seen him in the big tree, near the gate. And … uh, in the prickly bush, and in the tree that's all bent over and twisted up, next to the pond," he elaborated, brows drawn together in concentration.

Ellie glanced at Dean.

"Outside of the iron boundary." She looked from John to Rosie. "Can you see it in the daytime?"

They both nodded. Dean saw that talking about it had calmed them a little.

"Have you ever seen it near the house, or the garage?"

The small heads shook in unison. Ellie nodded. "Around our house, there's a special wall, a wall made of iron, that stops bad things from being able to come to the house. The bad thing can't get past it, can't look in the windows or come through the doors and tomorrow, we'll all go together and look in the garden," she said seriously. "And we'll scare it right away, okay?"

Dean looked at them. The reassurance had worked to a certain extent, but not entirely, he thought. He met Ellie's eyes resignedly, seeing the corner of her mouth tuck in.

"You want to sleep in our bed tonight?"

"Yeah!" John jumped off his mother's lap and raced out of the room.

"Yay!" Rosie scrambled out of her bed and raced out of the room and down the hall, following her brother.

Ellie leaned across the bed and turned out the nightlight, and the room plunged into darkness. Getting up, they walked out of the room, turning down the hall.

Rosie and John looked tiny in the big bed, and Ellie leaned over, tucking them both in as Dean turned on a lamp on the dresser.

"Snuggle down and go to sleep," Ellie said, kissing them. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

"What the hell could it be?" Dean paced the length of the living room.

"No idea," Ellie said, watching him go past her. "But whatever it is, it's not getting past the iron, so calm down."

"Calm down? How can I calm down?" He stopped dead in the middle of the room. "They saw it, and we didn't – how'd it get past the perimeter alarm?"

"Might not be solid," Ellie said, looking back at her laptop.

"Great!" He looked at her, face screwed up in frustration. "How're we gonna kill it?"

"Well, let's see if we can identify it first?" She typed in a new set of keywords and hit Enter. "Then we can figure out how to kill it."

Dean threw himself into an armchair, hand slapping the arm. "Goddammit."

His fingers were drumming on the arms of the chair and after a moment of it, Ellie looked up with a sigh. Dean looked at her.

"What?"

"Get a drink. Get one for me too," she said. "Dean, the house is protected. Whatever it is can't get in. Let's just focus on getting rid of it, okay?"

He got up and walked to the low cupboard next to the doorway, pulling out two tumblers and filling both half-full. He carried them back to the sofa and sat down beside her, putting her glass down and looking over her shoulder.

"Anything on stick men?"

"Maybe." She turned the laptop a little, showing him the screen. On it, a number of drawings and paintings depicted twiggy humanoid figures, in woodlands or gardens, small black eyes bright against the darker, seamed bark of their branch faces. His brows drew down as he read the heading.

"Wood sprites?" He shot a look at Ellie. "Seriously?"

She shrugged, picking up her glass. "So far, that's all I've got."

He leaned past her, reading the description. "Wood sprites are faery elementals that live in trees and woods. They are particularly fond of the oak, ash and hawthorn."

He looked back at her. "This is a joke, right?"

"'Creatures made of twigs' is what I had, and this is what's come up." She sipped the whiskey. "They're extremely susceptible to iron, can be seen if they want to be, but are invisible otherwise, they're not usually considered dangerous, they are sometimes regarded as harbingers of bad fortune and are sometimes used as an advance scout for other elementals … I do realise it's a reach, Dean, but that's all I've got."

He was staring at her.

"What?"

"The fairies." The words slipped out of him, his eyes widening slightly and darkening with some memory.

"Dean?"

He blinked, his eyes refocussing on her. "Yeah."

"The fairies?" Ellie looked at him questioningly.

"What?" He picked up his glass. "Oh, uh … didn't I tell you about that?"

"No. You didn't."

"Huh." He tossed back the rest of the whiskey. "It was back when Sam didn't have his soul. Indiana. There were disappearances and we went to check them out. Thought it was UFOs at first, that seemed to be the likeliest explanation. But it wasn't."

"It was fairies?" Ellie asked, watching him twitch with discomfort.

"Yeah." He looked at the screen. "It was, uh … fractured fairy tale stuff … some watchmaker'd made a deal and they came through from …from … wherever it is they come from, and they'd been taking the firstborn kids of the town, starting with his son. I … uh … well, you know, I … um ..."

"You're the firstborn in your family," Ellie said quietly. "So they took you too?"

He looked at her sharply, hearing something in her voice. Her face was expressionless, and he nodded. "Couldn't hold me, though. I'm not sure how I got away but – anyway, when I got back, I could see them. Sam couldn't, no one else could either, but I could."

Ellie nodded. "That's fairly universal in the lore. Once you've been to their plane, you can see them forever."

"Yeah." He rubbed his hand over his face. "After that, it got – complicated. I, uh, kind of got into a situation with one of the locals, and ended up in jail, and Sam had to do the spell to banish them."

Ellie's brows rose. "Oh, okay, so Sam was fully involved then?"

Dean looked at her narrowly, catching the gleam far back in her eyes. "You're laughing at me."

"Not much," she said, smiling. "Just a little."

He scowled at her. "None of it was funny."

"Come on, Dean. It's a little bit funny." She shook her head and looked at the screen. "Maybe they're here for you then?"

"What d'you mean?" He got up, taking his glass back to the cupboard for another shot. Stupid goddamned job had been the most bizarre of his life.

"Well, they had you and the lore is also pretty clear that once you've seen their side of the fence, you're not supposed to be able to get back." She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "If they're here, you might be unfinished business."

"Please tell me this is your weird sense of humour, and you're not saying that I'm being targeted by fairies," he said, turning back to her.

"'Fraid not." She looked at him. "My sense of humour isn't weird - you should talk."

"Don't get off track," he said, walking back to the sofa. "What do we do about it?"

"Well, a few things." She looked at the screen. "Is Sam coming over tomorrow?"

"Yeah, uh … we don't really need to tell Sam about this, do we?" He looked at his glass uncomfortably.

Ellie snorted. "We have to tell _everyone_ about this."

"What?! Why?"

"They're faeries." She gestured at the screen. "If they're here, they'll be looking to take the 'fruit and the fat of the land' – they'll be after all the firstborn children here. John's in danger, and Marc, and Henry … everyone has to be warned and we'll need Twist and a couple of the nephilim down in the town as well, to keep those people safe." She bit her lip, thinking. "Tamsin might know of some protective charms for the children – and you," she added, the corners of her mouth tucking in slightly.

"Do me a favour – stop enjoying this so much," he said, mouth twisting.

"I'm just being practical." She grinned.

"You're just waiting 'til I leave the room so you can roll around on the floor laughing your ass off," he said darkly, watching her duck her head.

"It's not that bad." She drew in a deep breath. "And I'm taking this seriously, Dean."

"Huh."

"All the houses have the boundary of iron, so while everyone stays inside, they should be okay." She got up and picked up the phone, tossing it to him. "Call everyone. Tell them to stay home tomorrow, especially the children."

"What are you going to do?" He looked at her as she headed out to the hall.

"Build a trap for a wood sprite," she said over her shoulder as she headed for the basement.

* * *

"Wow, I really didn't remember that," Sam said, looking at Dean bemusedly.

"Yeah, well, it was a job we both should have blocked out," his brother said sourly.

Sam laughed, bits and pieces of memory coming back. "The tinkerbell in the microwave. Wow."

Dean shook his head, looking up at Ellie. "Thanks for this, by the way."

She grinned at him. "Embrace your past."

"Mom, we've finished breakfast, can we go now?" John came into the living room, Rosie on his heels.

"Sure can, baby." She turned to look at Dean. "You ready to go sprite hunting?"

He grunted and got up, looking down at his brother. "I suppose you want to see this too?"

"Absolutely." Sam got up and followed them out.

The garden was soaked in dew, the early sunlight refracting from a million droplets over the grass, the shrubs and flowers and trees. Between the larger trees and the buildings, cobwebs shimmered and further down the slope near the pond a soft white mist rose from the water.

_Damned place looks like a fairy garden_, Dean thought as he followed Ellie down the porch steps at the back of the house. She held an unwieldy construction of fine twigs and branches, loosely woven around a simple frame of ash wood and topped by a thick thatch of hawthorn, the darker wood shining in contrast. Interwoven with the twigs, thin staves of blackthorn had been wound around with a length of fine copper wire and bound together with red silk thread. She'd explained a bit of the making to him last night, but what the thing looked like now was a preciously rustic bird-house.

"Will the birds like the house, Mom?" John looked curiously at it, walking beside his mother.

"I hope so, sweetie." She looked up at the oak that stood near the boundary to Baraquiel's home. It had a wide canopy, the branches spreading and solid and would be the most likely place for the thing to be hiding, she thought, with full view of the house, both the front and back.

Where the iron tracks were buried, she stopped. "Dean, you and John and Rosie stay here, behind the iron. Sam, you're pretty safe."

Dean picked up Rosie and told John to stay close to him, watching his wife and brother walked across the dew-soaked grass to the oak tree. Sam gave Ellie a leg-up to the lowest branch and handed the trap up to her, and she climbed a few more feet into the canopy before hanging it up in the branches. It still looked like a bird-house.

Ellie dropped back to the ground and she and Sam walked back to them, stopping and turning when they reached the boundary.

"Well, it looks like a bird-house," Dean said, looking down at John.

"That's the idea." Ellie smiled at him. "A nice, safe little bird-house with a view of the house."

"And why would the sp– birds want to use it?" he asked, glancing at Rosie.

"Because there's a bowl of cream and another of honey to get them to go inside," she said over her shoulder as she took John's hand and walked back up to the house. "Irresistible to the 'birds' around here."

* * *

"Hey, Dean, I been looking for you," Twist looked up as Dean walked into the kitchen. Garth was sitting next to him, and Bezaliel and Idan sat across the table from them. Sam sat at the head of the table, head bowed over something in his hands. "Need some help on something."

Dean walked past the table to the counter, picking up the coffee pot and a mug. "Sure, what's the problem?"

"Well, I wanted to get your take on how we should tackle the boggarts?"

"And the brownies," Idan interjected.

Twist grinned. "Sam says you took care of the tinkerbell real easy."

Dean looked at them as the table erupted into laughter, his brother's head dropping lower, shoulders shaking.

"Oh yeah, you guys are hilarious." He stalked out of the room, turning into the hall and heading for the basement.

In the extensive library built under the house, Ellie was reading, a number of books open on the table she sat beside, the single overhead light casting its light over the table and brightening her copper-red hair.

"Sam told 'em everything," he said, dropping into a chair next to her. "They'll never let this go."

She looked up at him and smiled sympathetically. "Yeah, they will, we have other things to worry about, and they're just blowing off steam."

He scowled into his coffee cup. _Blowing off steam at his expense_, he thought. _Goddamned fairies. Goddamned Indiana job._

"How long do we wait for the trap?" He put the cup down and made an effort to push his embarrassment and aggravation aside.

"We'll check it in the morning." She tapped her pen on one of the books. "In the meantime, Tamsin said she had some charms ready for us. She's not sure how well they'll work; she was mostly going from fairy tales and Celtic mythology."

The stairs creaked behind them and they turned to see Frank walking down, a file held in one hand.

"Mornin'." He walked over, handing Ellie the file. "Just finished loading those books you gave me yesterday – and we've got a few hits on Asase Ya. Good ones."

She opened the file, tucking her feet up against the side of the table, and resting it on her knees as she skimmed through. Frank turned to Dean.

"So … you've got faeries in your garden," he said, his face expressionless.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Frank, whatever it is that you're desperate to say, just get it over with – I'm done with this game."

Frank's mouth twitched. "You could just get the children to go out and yell "I don't believe in fairies!" you know, I believe that does the trick."

"Wow." Dean looked at him. "This is so much better than the last fucking time I had to deal with this shit."

Frank grinned at him. "Opportunities like these don't come along very often."

"Go away, Frank. Far away."

Frank laughed and handed him a small bag. "Sugar. It's the one thing that all the lore agrees on, they have to stop and count the grains before they can do anything else. Might give you enough time to get away from the pesky little critters."

He turned away and went back up the stairs, snorting to himself. Dean took the bag and dropped it on the table, rubbing a hand over his face. Hunters didn't get a lot of amusement in their lives. He could look forward to the comments for a long time. A long, long time.

Ellie pulled a sheet from the file, the characteristic crease between her brows deepening. "Well, we've got a way to put her to sleep."

He looked at her. "Great, let's go do it – no, wait, I forgot. We can't because we're under siege by fucking faeries!"

She smiled at him. "We also need to find her."

"How do we check out those charms?"

"Someone'll have to go for a wander tonight."

"Maybe Twist can do a test run for us?" He smiled humourlessly. She laughed and shook her head.

"He's got two older brothers and four older sisters, he's safe. I'll take a walk around after dark to test them."

"You?"

"Technically I'm a firstborn." She looked at him.

He exhaled. "But they don't want you – or at least, not as much as they want me. I'll do it, then we'll know for sure."

She propped her chin on her hand, looking at him thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe. It would be definitive, I guess."

"Have we still got that old billhook you thought was an antique?" he asked.

She frowned at him. "It _is_ an antique, and yes, it's in the garden shed."

"I'll take that, just in case. It's iron."

"Good point." She got up. "You want me to ask Sam to get the charms?"

He lifted one shoulder slightly. "Yeah, I'll do some reading down here for a while."

* * *

The sun had dropped behind the Cascades and the valley was inked in purple, deepening to indigo on the slopes. Dean felt the small charm prickling against his neck, an iron pendant woven through with twigs and herbs that gave off a pungent odour. His hand tightened around the long shaft of the billhook as he looked into the growing gloom of the road.

He'd barely been able to see anything, when he'd been taken in Indiana. Bright lights and the feel of small hands against his back and sides. The second he'd realised that he wasn't in the corn field any longer, he'd started firing his automatic, swinging Ruby's knife around, screaming at the top of his lungs. And then he'd seen the corn stalks and the night sky, the receding lights disappearing and leaving a bright afterimage against his eyes.

_I went crazy. I started hacking and slashing and firing. They actually seemed surprised. I don't think anybody's ever done that before._ He thought of what he'd told Sam, when he'd finally made it back into town. Maybe no one had done it before. Neither the tiny fairy nor the silent dude who'd come after him later had seemed interested in taking him back.

He glanced at the long blade on the shaft next to him. Well, they'd get it back if they tried it tonight. The blade was iron and he'd spent the afternoon sharpening it, and he had no compunctions about slicing and dicing if anything at all came after him.

"You ready?" Ellie came out onto the porch and looked at him. He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Take it slow, alright?" Ellie looked at his face, seeing the jaw muscle twitching. "We just want to make sure that the charm hides you."

"Yeah, I got it," he said, glancing at her. "I'll see you in a bit."

He walked down the steps and across the turnaround, feeling the faint rise under his feet that marked the iron track buried under the ground. Against the skin of his chest, the charm seemed to warm and he slowed down, looking around in the deepening darkness, both hands on the smooth wooden shaft of the billhook.

In his peripheral vision he caught glimpses of movement as he walked toward the road, heard the shiver of the new leaves in the trees to either side of him. Could they see him? Or smell him? Or hear him or whatever the hell it was they did?

He walked through the gate to the driveway, and the noises and movements he'd barely sensed ceased abruptly. Taking another step along the road, Dean felt his neck prickling, and looked around. There wasn't so much as a breath of movement in the night air, not a sound. He took another cautious step forward, hands tightening unconsciously on the billhook's shaft. Further down the road he could see the lights of the houses, casting soft pools of normality in the darkness. He turned around, seeing the lights of his own home, broken up by the vegetation.

Wind roared up the road, the tree tops lashing furiously back and forth, road dust and twigs and leaves blowing in a whirlwind around him and over the wind's noise he heard hoofbeats and a high, ululating cries, the stentorian breathing of big animals, getting closer. He spun around, staring into the darkness, then light burst over him, and he could see them, vividly bright in lavender and gold, cerulean and ruby, incandescent swords and lances; wild, fey faces; long hair in every shade twisting upwards in the vortex.

_Empty your heart of its mortal dream.  
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,  
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,  
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam_

The words flashed through his mind, their source unknown, their meaning clear now, that vision hanging over him, and he yelled back at the hunt, swinging the billhook blindly, hearing a savage hiss by his side as the heavy blade bit into something.

* * *

Ellie stood on the porch, watching as Dean walked up to the gates and then through them, disappearing as he turned onto the road. She felt the silence and stillness fall as soon as he'd passed through the stone pillars that held the iron gates, felt her senses tingling with unease at that silence, her breath caught in her throat.

She heard the roaring as it came up the road, and ran down the steps, stopping at the lump in the ground that marked the iron circle, watching the tree tops flailing and lashing in the small section of road that she could see, barely making out Dean's shape beyond the gates, dark against the darkness of the forest behind him, just the pale blur of his face. When the light exploded over him, she saw him swing the billhook, her ears filled with wild cries and screams and the snort of horses and the bellowing of cattle. Riding the wild whirlwind, a dozen figures were in the air above him, mounted on beasts that bore little resemblance to their earthly counterparts, shining in a rainbow of colours too bright to look at directly.

_The Wild Hunt_. A thousand works of fiction, of fairy tales and legends and myths, of Celtic and Nordic songs filled her mind in the instant she recognised them, and she ran up the gravelled drive, the long iron knife already in her hand, a scream of rage tearing out of her throat, her heart pounding in fear.

* * *

Dean heard the scream from the direction of the house, and ducked under the sweep of an eldritch sword, rolling hard toward the gates. These weren't anything like the fucking fairies he'd seen before, and he was pretty sure they weren't here to wish him Happy Birthday. He came to his feet a few feet from the gates, eyes slitted against the bright light that was enveloping him, the long reach of the weapon in his hand sweeping in front of him, jarring in his hands as the blade hit something, unable to see what it was. Behind him he could hear panting and the crunch of feet on the gravel, but he couldn't afford to take his attention away from the enemy in front of him.

He glimpsed a gleam of metal beside him, a slender figure jumping high to his left, heard a deep yell of rage to his right. The light of the hunt lit up Ellie's face as she swung toward the nearest faery, astride a huge, black … bull-like … thing. He saw the creature meet the knife blade with a long sword edge, sparks drawn along the blades and heard a ringing from the clash. Ellie turning in the air, the tip of the other weapon's longer reach cutting into her shoulder, and he was next to her, the billhook slashing down at the fey, the iron plunging into its side. The shriek was impossibly high, drilling into his ears, as the black animal reared and swung away.

"Back to the house," Ellie gasped, her arm hooking around his ribs and dragging him backwards. "Sam, back!"

His brother held another long-handled weapon, swinging it wildly around him as he backed to the gates. He saw Sam's eyes glittering in the light of the faeries, recognised his complete focus and let Ellie pull him back through the gateway, Sam's long strides keeping pace with them.

The second they crossed the iron track everything stopped. The wind vanished. The lights vanished. In the garden, the small noises of the nocturnal creatures resumed. The air felt real again, breathable, untainted.

Dean turned to look at Ellie, eyes narrowing as he took in the slash on her shoulder.

"You alright?"

She nodded, moving the arm a little. "Yep."

Sam looked at them. "I'm guessing this means that the charms don't work."

"Guess so." Dean pulled out the necklet from his shirt. The herbs and twigs were soft and twisted and blackened. The iron had melted, Tamsin's carefully wrought design unrecognisable now. He pulled down the collar of his shirt, touching the skin gingerly. It was fine, no burn, not even tender. Jerking free the leather thong that had held the charm around his neck, he held it out to his brother.

Sam took it, his forehead creasing as he looked at what remained. "Okay then."

* * *

Ellie pulled her shirt back over her shoulder, lifting it over the dressing. "The Wild Hunt. There's a lot of lore, too much to go into now. One of the things it does is retrieve or kill those who escape."

"So they were there just for me? They wouldn't come after anyone else?" Dean fastened the first aid kit and sat down next to her.

"Well, they might come after Sam and me now … I'm not sure. But yeah, you were definitely the primary target."

"How do we kill them?" He took the glass Sam offered him.

"I don't think we can, not all of them, at least." Ellie leaned back in the chair, the soreness of the cut throbbing gently in time with her pulse. "We have to send them back."

She looked up at Sam. "Tell me you kept that spell, from the book in Elwood?"

He shook his head ruefully. "I sent the book to Bobby – it might be with his library."

"We'll have a look in the morning," she said. They would need help, someone who really knew about these creatures. None of the hunters here had run across anything more taxing than a goblin and that wasn't enough. As a child, she'd read a lot about the faerie kingdoms, mostly the mythology of the Celts. She had enough background, just not enough detail.

"How could they get out to begin with?" Sam sat across the table from her, nursing a glass of whiskey.

"Someone invited them." Ellie turned around. "There's no way of knowing who – or even where. Once they've been invited to this plane, they can go where they like. It's just that they usually stay around the person who did the spell."

"But they had other business this time," Sam said, looking at Dean.

"Yeah." She turned to look at him as well. "Pretty much house arrest until we can get rid of them, Dean."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

"I'll get Frank onto the faery lore. We need stronger charms, and we need something proactive, something that'll hold them while we find that spell to banish them."

"That lady from Indiana told us about the sugar – or salt – spilling it in front of them and forcing them to count every grain," Sam said, looking up.

Dean nodded. "Frank said that too."

"Dwight's still making some weapons at the back of his place; he might be able to cast some iron arrowheads, something we can use from the ground against the Hunt?" Sam added, looking at Ellie.

"Yeah, can you see him tomorrow? We can't use pure iron, it's too soft. But salt-hardened iron would probably be strong enough. Not cast though. Cold iron – wrought and beaten is the strongest."

He nodded, and looked at Dean. "I'm taking off – listen, about telling the others –"

Dean shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Sam."

* * *

They were in the kitchen, the table cleared after breakfast and covered with newspapers, slowly filing the trilobate edges of the cold iron arrowheads Dwight had hammered out over the past two days. Frank had come up with zip on stronger protective charms so far, and Sam could see his brother getting irritable with cabin fever.

Sam looked over at his brother. "Anyway, it could be worse."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "How?"

The doorbell chimed softly, and he turned slightly, hearing Ellie open the door, the murmur of voices in the hall.

"Well, it could be aliens … or we could have to sit through another discussion with Crazy Crystal Lady, drinking thimbles full of tea?"

Dean snorted, looking back at the door as the voices got louder in the hall.

"Mmmm … Dean and Sam. It's been a long, long time, hasn't it?"

Marion Allbright stood in the doorway. A tight burnt-orange polyester pantsuit hugged her ample curves, the pale apricot blouse under it shimmering with speckles of glitter in the morning sunshine. A dozen necklaces of varying lengths hung from her neck, polished crystals, cheap rhinestones and coloured glass sparkling among the frills of the blouse's jabot. Long, blonde hair, more silver than gold at the front now, was piled into a slightly haphazard chignon on the top of her head. Her hands were heavy with rings, silver and gold and set with enormous semi-precious stones. Her skin was still unlined, small mouth curved into a smile as she looked from one to the other.

"Marion …" Dean's mouth stretched out in a smile, his eyes flicking past the woman to Ellie, standing behind her. "Wow, what a surprise … this … is …"

Sam looked at Dean and turned his head belatedly to Marion. His memories of the case in Elwood had all come back, including the way he'd spoken to her when they'd met and a dull line of red was inching its way up his neck. "Hi … Marion … you're, uh, a long way from home?"

"Yes! Ellie called me. She said you needed my help."

"Come in, Marion. Would you like a cup of coffee?" Ellie slipped past her.

"Do you have tea, dear? I do like tea."

"Yes, sure. Have a seat." Ellie ducked her head at Dean's expression and walked around the table to the cupboard, pulling a canister of loose tea and a small ceramic teapot from the top shelf.

"Uh … Ellie? Can I have a word with you for just one minute?" Dean got up, putting the file and arrowhead on the table. Ellie finished spooning tea into the pot and nodded, walking past Sam and out the door.

Sam looked up to find Marion's gaze on him expectantly. He smiled uncomfortably and looked back at the arrowhead in his hand.

"Uh … so how's the fairy business been?"

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean hissed at Ellie when they were in the living room. "You invited her here? As a ... a … a consultant?"

Ellie smiled. "Keep your voice down. And yes, I called her, she's studied faery lore her whole life, she knows these –"

"She's crazy! There isn't one tight screw under all that hair!" he yelled in a whisper. "Trust me, she cannot help us!"

"Actually, she got more involved after the job you handled there, and everyone I asked said that she was the one to call," Ellie said calmly. "She didn't give you bad information when you talked to her."

He couldn't think of an answer to that, settling for glaring at her.

"Anyway, play nice because she's going to be here until we can get this sorted out," she said, turning for the door.

"You didn't …" He looked at her, understanding dawning. "You didn't … she isn't … tell me you didn't …"

"I did. She hasn't got a lot of cash to spare, and we have the room."

"No! Dammit, don't walk away." He hurried after her down the hall, adjusting his expression to one of bland pleasantness as he came into the kitchen after her.

Sam looked at him expressionlessly. "So Marion tells me that she's been hunting faeries since we last saw her."

"Really?" Dean stood behind his chair, nodding. "My wife says that you, uh, got more involved in the lore after, uh, after –"

"After you left? Mmmmm. Yes." Marion looked up at him warmly. "I was shocked by Mr Brennan's murder, and after the … erm … hoo-ha … surrounding what you did to the District Attorney, I put two and two together. The children who went missing were never returned."

Sam looked down; the file's soft rasping filling the silence. Dean swallowed.

"And you've been … uh, looking for other incidents since then?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"Oooh yes. There are many once you start to look," she said softly. "And doing the banishings, if the fey folk were called by those who are greedy and should know better."

Dean shot a look at Sam. He pulled out his chair and sat down, looking at Marion.

"You've been doing banishings?"

Ellie filled the teapot and brought the pot and a small china cup to the table, setting them down next to Marion. Over the other woman's head she sent Dean a told-you-so look. He lifted one shoulder in a very slight shrug.

"Thank you, my dear." Marion looked back at Dean. "Yes, mostly it's just sprites and sylphs, the occasional boggart or sometimes brownies. But I have had the need to banish the Hunt, turn Caoilte and Nimh from their business and send them back." She sipped at her tea.

"So you've, uh, banished the Wild Hunt?" He turned and looked at Ellie, who widened her eyes at him.

"Mmm … of course." Marion set her cup down. "Once I realised, once it was made known to me that people were in danger, that the Faery were breaking through into our world on a far more than random basis, what else could I do but take what I'd learned over the years and use it to protect the weak, the unwise, the foolish?"

"Sure." He nodded. "So did Ellie tell you –?"

"Tell me about you, Dean? Yes," she said. "You should have told me that you'd been taken, in Elwood. I could have given you something that would have hidden you from them then."

"Ah … yeah."

"You have been to the Faery Realm and you have returned." She sipped her tea. "I don't know if I can make you understand how rarely that happens. The Little Folk used to demand a tiende for being released, returned. A tithe. It was a terrible price, whichever choice the person agreed to."

"What price?" Sam leaned forward.

"There was always a choice, you see?" Marion turned to him. "A choice between going back straight away, and living out your life as you would have if the visit had never been made – but going to Hell in the place of a faery at the end of it."

Dean's face paled a little. "And the other choice?"

"You stayed in the faery realm and worked for the price of freedom, whatever work they had for you," Marion said, looking back at him.

"That doesn't sound so bad."

She smiled, a little sadly. "No, but time in the Faery Realm is different to time here. Those who chose to stay were returned hundreds of years after they'd been taken, to find their families and their friends gone, their whole lives gone."

"Great." There was no way he was picking either of those options.

Ellie put a cup of coffee on the table beside Sam, and one beside Dean, picking up her own and walking around to sit next to him.

"So, what do we need to banish the Hunt and stop them from finding Dean again?"

"Ahh. Mmmm … we'll need rowan and St John's Wort, and silver, for those that ride in the Hunt are the dark faery, and although iron is poison to them, silver will burn more deeply." She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. "The spell can be made on the half-moon, which I believe is tomorrow night. Hawthorn and elderberry we will need as well. And a separate circle of protection to counteract the original invitation."

She opened her eyes. "Mr Brennan had a book?"

"Yeah, we think we have it here, but we haven't been able to find it so far," Sam said.

"No matter, I have a number of possible spells that will work." She turned to Ellie. "I will need a space in your garden, or in a clearing nearby, preferably one with oaks grown around it."

Dean felt his eyes widen slightly as Marion shed her dreamy, gentle persona, turning into a different person in front of them. Even the wispy, breathless little voice she normally used had deepened and strengthened. He felt his brother's eyes on him, and half-turned, the one-sided smile aimed at Sam hidden from the other side.

Ellie nudged him and he looked back, finding Marion's gaze fixed on him.

"I'll need a small amount of all your bodily secretions," she said. "And hair, nail clippings, some clothing and a photograph."

"Bodily … what?" He looked at Ellie, who returned his look dryly.

"Blood, urine, sweat, tears, semen, faeces, saliva," she clarified, mouth twisting as she watched his brows rise. "The spell to hide you has to be locked to everything about you, or it won't work."

He looked at Sam, who shrugged. "Whatever it takes, right?"

"Yeah. Right."

Marion nodded and turned to Ellie. "We should interrogate this sprite."

Ellie got up. "It's in the basement."

* * *

"What were the orders from the Aes Sidhe?"

Marion's voice was soft and light again, and Ellie could hardly hear her, despite being seated right next to her.

The sprite, which did look like a loosely tied bundle of sticks, peered out from the dim interior of the trap, sparkling black eyes barely visible within the seamed and cracked bark, the elemental's features suggested by the whorls and protrusions of the thicker, central branch.

"To find the prisoner. To alert them when the location was known. To place the markers." Its voice was harsh, high-pitched but rough and broken in timbre.

"What markers have been laid?"

"The fungi and the dead crow. The antler horn and the soft, white stone." It scowled at her as she held out another small dish of cream, taking it angrily and downing it in a few noisy gulps and throwing the dish behind it.

"Why did the Hunt wait until now to collect the prisoner?"

The sprite laughed suddenly, an odd scratching sound. "They couldn't find him, not for years. I told them where he was laired, three or four years ago, but they didn't believe me, kept trying to track him themselves."

"Why didn't they believe you?"

"How should I know?! I didn't get an invite to the council!"

The sprite drew back inside the trap and Marion squeezed a little honey into another small dish, extending it to the creature. The dish was seized and dragged inside, and Ellie heard smacking, gobbling, slurping noises coming from the dim interior.

Marion had told her not to look at the sprite. It was considered ill-mannered to stare at a faery, ill-mannered and even threatening. She kept her eyes on the notebook in front of her most of the time, stealing a glance every now and then.

"Who opened the doorway? Who invited the Fey into this world?" Marion's voice firmed suddenly.

"The Sidhe need no invitation to come to a world already theirs!" The sprite snapped back at her.

"Who opened the doorway?" she repeated, her voice hardening a little more.

"Some fool farmer in Arkansas," the sprite said, suddenly appearing at the opening of the trap again. "Wanted a bumper crop."

"How many came through?"

"Not many," it said, staring up at her. "Not so many these days."

"How many?"

"Eleven of us altogether. Four to work the fields and cajole the spirits of the earth. Four to the four winds to find the prisoner. Three to hold the doorway open and take the tiende."

Ellie frowned at that comment, making a note on the paper. She'd ask later.

"Thank you," Marion said with no irony in her voice. The sprite looked sourly at her and turned away.

She got up and gestured for Ellie to go ahead of her, and they walked back upstairs to the kitchen.

* * *

"There's a circle of oaks on the edge of the forest. A vixen lairs under one of them." Ellie said to Marion as they sat at the table.

"Good. Good, mmmm … that will work nicely, the vixen's scent hiding us until it's too late." She held her cup, looking at Ellie over the rim. "I will need some help, three or four men who are not firstborn sons."

Ellie nodded. "Sam can go with you in the morning. Twist and Bezaliel too."

"Bezaliel … what an interesting name."

"He's a Watcher," Ellie said, the side of her mouth curving up as she saw interest leap in Marion's eyes.

"A Watcher, here?"

"We have a few here. They were driven from their own lands quite a few years ago, and they decided to stay, to train their children to be hunters."

"Do they know much about the alternative planes? The Faery Realm?"

Ellie shook her head. "No, they know more about Heaven and Hell. Angels, even the fallen, are not particularly curious creatures."

Dean came into the kitchen, and put eleven small glass jars on the table.

"That's all of it." He looked at Ellie sourly. "Anything else you need?"

Marion shook her head. "No. The herbs must be picked in the morning, with the dew still on them."

He rolled his eyes at Ellie. "Sam's gone. The iron arrowheads are ready, and he's already told Dwight to melt down the family silver and get us some silver ones."

"We'll make a couple of make-shift halberds with the silver knives as well. We need something with a good reach."

"Any reason we can't use guns with silver bullets?" He looked from one to the other.

Ellie wrinkled her nose. "Guns can jam, and you can bet they'll all be jammed if they're anywhere near the Hunt."

Marion nodded. "The Faery will be throwing out spells of protection, of deflection. But they're spiteful as well, and will think of nothing of exploding the weapons in your hands if they can. Solid metal can be deflected but it cannot harm the bearer."

A sharp, vivid image filled his mind and he nodded.

"Mmmm … I need to rest before the morning's labours. If you would be so kind as to show me my room?"

Ellie turned back to Marion. "Of course. Dean, could you take Marion up to the guest room? Her luggage is in the hall."

He looked at her expressionlessly for a moment. "Sure."

Ellie got up and put the jars into a basket, lifting it into a high shelf. Rowan, hawthorn, St John's Wort, primrose and verbena. All of them grew in the garden, and Tamsin would have the rowan berries, harvested last fall.

* * *

Pale moonlight filled the bedroom, enough for them to see each other. Ellie rolled onto her side and looked at Dean.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't." His face was screwed up apologetically. "I just … can't."

"Why?"

He glanced at the door. "I can't do it while she's just down the hall, in our house."

The half-muffled snort of laughter beside him was unexpected. He looked down at her.

"You know, this isn't funny."

"It kind of is." She smiled at him, repressing another burst. "I didn't think anything could inhibit you."

"She's as crazy as a bedbug, and that … it just gets to me, okay?" He shifted away from her a little, and felt her arm curl around him, pulling him back.

"I'm sorry. You're entitled to a couple of weirdnesses."

He sighed. "You don't think she's nuts?"

She settled against him. "We had a long talk, when I called her."

The laughter had gone from her voice, and he waited.

"She lost her husband and two children in a car accident, about eight or nine years ago. She was supposed to have been with them, but something came up in her business and she had to stay and deal with it. She used to run a small import business, specialising in jewellery, pretty successful one apparently. She was going to follow on when she was done, but the police came first." She sighed against his chest.

"After the funerals, she just couldn't hold on. Didn't see the point of it. So she sold her business, and started to wear what was left of the inventory, sold the house that they'd owned, and drifted around for a while. She'd loved fantasy, mythology, all that stuff when she was a child, and she went back, in her mind, and just immersed herself in it. Somewhere, buried deep, she knew it wasn't helping, but every time she remembered, or she thought of them, she'd think about the otherworld, and pretend that they'd been taken there, and they were okay, and she'd see them again one day, and she got by."

Dean closed his eyes. God, there was no end to the pain on this planet, he thought miserably. Everyone had a reason – for what they did, for how they were – how'd he forgotten that?

"After what happened in Elwood, she said she started to come back up, back out of it. She packed up her stuff and put it in storage, bought a car and started researching properly. She had all the background, and a lot of contacts, some useful, some not so much. She used the money she had to go to Europe and see for herself the barrows and cairns, the circles and haunted woods. She compiled every bit of information she could find into a reference work, and has been adding to it ever since."

She heard his exhale, long and low, felt it stir her hair. "She really does know her stuff, Dean."

He nodded, his arm tightening slightly around her. "Yeah. Fuck, I feel like a douche now."

"You didn't know."

He looked down at her. "I should've though, of all people, I should've known how easy it is to go crazy when everything gets taken away."

"You can't let on you know this, okay?" Ellie said sleepily. "I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone. She doesn't like the sympathy."

He felt her yawn, her jaw muscle jumping into his side. "Yeah, okay."

A moment later he heard her breathing change. "You asleep?"

_Damn, that was fast_. He shifted slightly, curling a little toward her. Sleep would be nice, but he doubted it would come for him anytime soon.

* * *

His arm slid across the cool, bare sheet, confirming what his other senses had already told him. She was up, gone to pick the herbs and flowers with the dew still on them, most likely.

The sun had just crested the peaks to the east, pale gold light beginning to fill the room and he realised he'd only gotten a few hours sleep. He debated the pros and cons of trying for more, and decided against it. His stomach was growling and if he made pancakes for John and Rosie, he'd save Ellie some time as well.

To his surprise, the kitchen was already redolent with the scents of breakfast as he came down the stairs. He walked into the room and stopped, looking at John and Rosie sitting quietly at the long table, a stack of pancakes on their plates, rapidly vanishing, no spilled syrup or jelly, glasses of milk still upright beside their plates.

"Dad, Marion's making us breakfast," John said, tucking the mouthful of pancake into his cheek.

"I can see that." He walked to the table, looking around. The coffee pot was hot and full. A pan of bacon sat at the back of the stove keeping warm, next to it another pan of scrambled eggs and as he turned around, the toaster pinged.

"I hope you don't mind, I thought I'd just get this underway so that Ellie could get the plants from the garden without having to worry about it." Marion turned to him, Ellie's barely used apron covering her front.

"No, I don't mind," he said, shaking his head. "This is great, thanks."

"Mmmm … I miss cooking for a family. There doesn't seem to be much point in making an effort for just one," she said, turning back to the stove. He let the comment go and reached for a cup, pouring coffee into it and taking it back to the table.

"Shouldn't you be out looking for the whatevers with Ellie?"

"She said it would be quicker if she found the herbs and plants, she knows where they all are in the garden," she said, taking a plate from the warmer and putting bacon, eggs and buttered toast onto it. "It's a new experience for me to do this with someone else, someone who knows what I'm talking about, I mean, someone who knows the lore."

She walked to the table and set the plate in front of Dean, gesturing vaguely to the small pile of cutlery on the table, as she returned to the stove. "Most people think it's all nonsense."

Dean looked down at the food in front of him. He'd thought it was all nonsense as well, until it had gotten in his face. "Thanks. Uh, most people don't have the first idea of what's out there."

"Yes, that is true." Marion sighed. "It takes seeing it for yourself to really believe."

The screen door banged open and Ellie came through the back door, the basket hung over her arm filled with greenery. "This is everything except the rowan berries. I'll need to get those from Tamsin."

She set the basket down at the end of the table, taking the plate that Marion handed her and sitting down next to Dean. "Did you sleep alright?"

"Yeah, eventually." He glanced at her, and looked back, more closely. Under her eyes, and around the sockets, a bluey-purple tinge stood out. "What about you?"

"Like the dead. Could hardly open my eyes this morning." She piled bacon and eggs onto the toast and cut a section from the layers. "Must need some catching up."

Marion took the children's plates to the sink as soon as they were finished, getting another plate for herself.

"Can we play outside now?" John turned and looked at his parents. Ellie paused, her fork halfway to her mouth.

"Stay inside of the iron – the lump in the ground I showed you. No going up to the gate or down to the pond," she said slowly.

They both nodded and slipped from their chairs, racing out of the kitchen and through the back door. The screen door slammed back against the wall, the sound echoing slightly around the kitchen.

"They are lovely children," she said, sitting across from Ellie with her breakfast. Ellie smiled.

"You're seeing them on a good day," she commented wryly. Dean snorted.

"Ah, but all children are everything we are, just without conventions and the armour around them to keep them subdued," Marion said softly. She looked at the basket at the end of the table, and when she spoke again the wistfulness had gone from her voice. "Getting everything ready will take a full day. Do you have straw or hay?"

Ellie nodded. "There are a few bales in the shed."

"Good, we can begin straight away."

* * *

Dean looked at the pile of straw in front of him, the bundle of his clothes to one side, and the bowl of blackened blech that was the burned remains of everything he'd handed over to Marion. He was supposed to make an effigy. Of himself.

Sympathetic magic, Ellie called it. Something that the faery world didn't use, having no need of it. A way to convince the creatures that followed him that he had died and was beyond their reach. He started stuffing.

It was mid-morning by the time he was reasonably sure that the straw man he'd made was close enough to his own size to fool a casual observer. The huge, wobbling stitches that enclosed the stuffing reminded him of Frankenstein's monster, the old Boris Karloff movies that he'd sometimes caught on late night TV as a child. He looked up as John and Rosie came into the shed.

"That looks like you, Dad," John said doubtfully. Dean looked down at the effigy.

"You think it does, John?" He shook his head. "You don't think I'm better-looking than this?"

Rosie laughed and ran over to him, her brother following slowly. "What's it for?"

"Garden. Going to scare away those pesky bad things," he said lightly, tucking Rosie under one arm and the scarecrow under the other as he stood. "C'mon, let's go find Uncle Sammy."

* * *

Sam, Twist and Bezaliel followed Marion into the house a little past noon. The three men were hot, sweating and grimy from digging and sinking the posts that were needed for the circle.

"Woman's a slave-driver," Twist muttered, accepting the beer Dean handed him.

"Is it all ready?"

"As it'll ever be." Sam twisted the top off his bottle and let the cold liquid pour down his throat. "You finish your scarecrow?"

Dean nodded. The circle and effigy were just one part of what they had to do when the moon rose that evening. They were for him. The other part was harder; the ritual to banish the Hunt and close the door between the planes was going to be a real trick, needing most of the hunters to accomplish.

He wasn't entirely sure of how they were going to pull it all off.

Marion had gone straight to her room to change, and she reappeared several minutes later, looking cool and comfortable in a soft white button-through shirt and wide-legged cotton pants.

"Tonight, everyone has to wear their clothes inside out," she said as she walked into the kitchen.

The men blinked. Twist looked around at her. "Why, exactly?"

"Faeries have difficulty seeing people when their garments are not as they should be."

"Again. Why?" Dean frowned at her.

"I'm not a faery, Dean. I don't know why," she snapped at him, pouring a long glass of cold juice and replacing the jug in the 'fridge. "All I know is that it works, so before we start out, all clothing needs to be inside out – underwear included."

The men exchanged looks and Sam shrugged. "I'll let the others know."

"Good." Marion took her glass and walked out onto the porch.

"Wow, touchy," Dean looked after her.

"You would be too if you were trying to co-ordinate a bunch of people who don't know what they're doing to perform a banishment for the Wild Hunt," Ellie said mildly from behind him.

He turned, opening his mouth to protest, and she cut him off, "Doesn't matter. How many of the nephilim can we have this evening?" she asked Bezaliel.

"Everyone will come. I'll tell them about the clothing," the Watcher answered. "Dwight says we won't have enough silver arrowheads."

Ellie shook her head. "That's fine. The main thing will be to pin them down once they're in the circle, stop them from moving or escaping and destroy whatever glamour they're using. The iron will be enough for that. The silver should be for the leaders."

Twist looked at her. "An' here I thought fairies were mischievous but mostly beneficial."

"Not these ones, Twist. You don't want to get close to them, you don't want to draw their attention to you. They're proud as the devil and have the morality of swamp rats, and they're malicious and sadistic – they do enjoy the Hunt, especially when they're chasing down humans."

Dean felt a shiver race down his spine as he recalled the inhuman beauty of the face he'd seen briefly, outlined in light. The almond-shaped eyes had been filled with laughter, and malice, and a mad kind of blood-lust. He didn't want to get any closer to them.

"So what am I supposed to be doing while everyone else is fighting the Hunt?" He looked at his wife.

"We'll be seeing to it that you get a proper hunter's burial, complete with dancing." She smiled at his expression.

* * *

The sun had dropped below the western horizon twenty minutes before, and the last of twilight was fading into night, the breeze that had been dancing along the high side of the valley all afternoon now sighing away to stillness.

In the forest on the other side of the road, and concealed within the branches and shrubs surrounding the gate, Dean knew that the hunters, Idan and Achina, Twist, Garth, Dwight and Katherine, Chazaquiel, Oran and Sariel, were waiting, their clothing oddly askew and inside out. Baraquiel and Chaz had been the most offended by the thought, but they'd complied after a single glance from Marion, whose softness had vanished completely as the preparations had begun to gear up. Baraquiel and Bezaliel were flanking her now, shadowed by the stone wall that divided garden from road, not even the last dim light in the sky able to draw an answering gleam from their makeshift silver-bladed weapons.

He felt Ellie's hand on his arm and turned away, following her through the oppressive gloom up the path into the forest. The clearing wasn't far, a few hundred yards from the edge of their property, jutting out from the mountainside where the slope had broken and left a bevelled cut in the hill. By the time they'd reached it, it was full night, and he couldn't see the work his brother and the others had done in the circle of old oaks, could barely make out Ellie picking her way carefully along the path in front of him. Like the others, their clothes were inside out, and the buttons and zippers and fastenings were hidden and muffled. He wasn't sure that he bought Marion's story about the clothing distracting the faeries from seeing them, but it hadn't been worth arguing over.

He stopped when Ellie stopped, eyes widely straining to see any detail in the dark clearing against the blackness of the trees and hill behind it. Marion had explained to them both exactly what had to be done. Only he could go into the circle. Ellie had to remain on the outside, to make the spell and direct it inwards.

"_I need to what?" He'd looked from Marion to Ellie._

"_Dance with the effigy, hold it close against you, so tightly that from a distance it looks as if it's dancing on its own," Marion had said again slowly and clearly, the waspishness of her tone indicating that she was getting irritated with him._

_He'd seen Ellie's lips compress as she added, "Think Survivor."_

_He'd scowled at her. At least no one else would be there to see it. It wasn't much of a comforting thought but it was the only one he could muster._

Now, he walked past her carefully into the circle. He could just make out the tattered edges of the straw man, hanging on the post Sam had set into the centre that morning. He heard Ellie move behind him, along the outer edge of the circle. He pulled in a deep breath.

All that was left was to wait for the fucking faeries to show up.

* * *

"I thought the Wild Hunt came with the witching hour," Baraquiel said softly to Marion. She was crouched between the two Watchers, her eyes fixed to the forested slope above the road.

"They come when they please," she replied, glancing up at the sky. When the sun had set, the sky had been perfectly clear. Now there were patches of darkness, blotting out the stars on this side of the mountain. She frowned at them. The moon wouldn't rise for another hour and the Hunt favoured the moonlight, sliding down the moonbeams and using the pale silver light to enhance their illusions. "There is much in the lore that is not correct, exaggerated or extrapolated without cause, or just made up by the men who wrote it."

Bezaliel glanced over her head at his brother. "Sounds like a lot of what mankind has written down about things they know little of."

The red-haired Watcher smiled. "The shortcomings of a minuscule lifespan."

"Ssh." Marion tilted her head. From down the road, they could hear the silvery chimes of bells. Every archer had them, a cluster of round bells to warn of the Hunt's approach and to hide their thoughts from the faery as they passed by. "They're coming."

* * *

Dwight looked at Katherine worriedly. "That's not them, is it?"

The group that passed along the road could have been any family group from anywhere in the country. Dressed casually, jackets zipped up against the faint cool in the night air, the first were two couples in their mid-sixties, talking and laughing, not even looking around at the dark road. Behind them, younger men and women held the hands of their children, the soft murmur of their voices clear in the still night, the conversations revolving around house renovations and the Baker's annual Fourth of July party, what to have for dinner and when did they have to be in Portland to get their flights home.

They didn't seem to notice the soft chiming of the bells as they passed and the hunters rose silently and followed them at a distance. Marion had told them about the faery glamour, the illusions that could seem frighteningly real or utterly mundane. But would the Little People choose an illusion so completely banal? He didn't want to fire at these people and find out he'd shot some perfectly ordinary citizens trying to enjoy their vacation.

* * *

Ellie's head snapped around as she heard the distant bells. She struck the match in her hand and touched the flame to the pungent oil that Marion had poured around the circle.

Dean saw the flicker of firelight from the corner of his eye, grabbing at the straw effigy on the post and dragging it down as the line of flame ran quickly around the two sides of the circle and cut across to the oil-soaked kindling at the base of the post. Feeling like several kinds of idiot, he locked his hands around the wrists of the straw man, pulling it hard against himself and jumped back, clear of the leaping fire. The song that came into his head wasn't Survivor's _Eye of the Tiger_, but the Stones' _Paint It Black_.

Ellie looked up over the flames, her smile vanishing as she heard another carillon of bells, closer this time. She threw the thin paper sachets of herbs onto the fire and closed her eyes, the ancient Gaelic spell tumbling from her in clumps and whorls, her voice rising and falling in the sing-song cadence that the language simply demanded.

* * *

The circle on the road was invisible, a thin, unbroken trail of black dust, charred rowan and hawthorn, St John's Wort and primrose and clover, oak and ash and yew, ground to powder; the opening to one side wide enough for two to pass in side-by-side. Marion shot to her feet as the group stepped into it, the smoothed stone in her hand pressed against one eye. Through the water-bored hole, slightly off-centre in the stone, she could see the faery as they truly were, could see the circle as a line of dark fire, flicking against the lighter black of the road.

"FIRE!"

A dozen arrows whistled from the trees on both sides of the road, and when the first silver leaf form tip touched the man at the front of the group, the glamour was shattered.

Light filled the road, a hundred colours and shades, burning and bleeding into each other as the illusory humans glowed and elongated, the beasts of the Hunt neighed and bellowed, and the hunters sent more arrows into the growing maelstrom of light and sound.

Marion walked to the edge of the circle, shouting the incantation that would close the door between this world and the next, her eyes fixed on the glowering aspect of the leader, Caoilte. Astride a black horse, the faery swung his sword at her and she raised her own, a tapered iron blade, the harsh clang as the two met cut off when the Watchers stepped to either side of her, forcing the dark elf-knight back, moonlight winking on the honed edges of their silver halberds.

Above the Hunt, the air thickened and roiled, bulging and pulsing as the spell tore at the fabric of space and time. Dwight looked up, seeing a pinpoint of bright light at the centre, growing larger, his eyes narrowing against the shifting colours. Twist saw the expression on the faery closest to him change, mouth opening in a howl of protest as the swirling, flickering light touched its shoulder and drew at it, its form stretching and skewing impossibly then disappearing into the light, goat-steed and all.

* * *

"Now!" Ellie yelled across the clearing, and Dean threw the straw man onto the fire at the base of the post, flinging himself back as the flames roared up and out, turning from yellow to ruby and flaring fiercely into emerald as the effigy was consumed. He lay on the ground staring at the green flames that licked into the sky, Jagger still singing on about the world turning to black in his head.

* * *

One by one, the Hunt faeries were touched by and pulled into the light above them, their shrieks cut off as they passed from one universe to the other. Marion stood at the edge of the vortex, her voice harsh and deep as she bellowed the Gaelic spell over the noise, her sword held in one hand, the other holding a silver knife, blade tip pointing at the centre of the doorway.

From the woods surrounding the houses, from the forest stretching up the mountainside, from the fields and towns and gardens and lakes and rivers and waterfalls in the surrounding countryside, pinpoints of glowing, brilliant light flew through the darkness, dragged to the gate. Garth ducked as a small spindly birdhouse swept past his head and disappeared into the light, a tiny raucous howl audible before it vanished. Caoilte's voice thundered at them as he was stretched and pulled, his horse's screams counterpoint to the basso profundo cursing and both flickered as they were sucked back to their world.

The doorway bulged outward as the last incandescent ball zipped into it, and the light vanished, the circular twistings of the air fading away, thinning out, becoming clear and transparent and then gone.

The hunters stood in a ragged circle on the road, clothing inside out and bows and arrows clutched in their hands, staring at each other.

* * *

The fire, at the base of the post, and in the circle around him, died. It didn't die down. It didn't flicker and fade. It just died, all at once. Dean rolled onto his side and sat up, looking around. The cloud that had been blocking out the stars earlier had gone, and the thin moonlight filled the clearing.

"Is it over?" He looked at Ellie, still kneeling on the outside of the circle.

"I guess it is," she said, looking around as she got to her feet.

"Did they get the others?" Dean got up and walked out of the circle, stopping next to her.

"They must have, we'd be able to hear something if it was still going on." Ellie looked down the path, then back at him. "Are you alright?"

"Aside from having another memory I need to bury deep enough to never have to think of again? Yeah, I'm good." His mouth curved up to one side.

* * *

"So, they're all gone now? Back to their own … plane?" Dean looked at Marion. The kitchen was bright with the morning sunlight, streaming through the large sash windows. Marion sat at the table between John and Rosie, sipping a cup of tea.

"Oh no. Only the Faery that came into this world through a Summoning were banished." She looked at him over the rim of her cup. "There are many of the Little Folk who live here all the time, who have assimilated, really, into our world and our society. Most live in the wild woods, where people do not go. Some choose to live closer to humans, to help when they can, to protect." Her voice was soft and wispy, rising and falling gently.

Dean sighed. He liked determined Marion a hell of a lot better. "But we don't have to worry about them?"

"No. They keep to themselves." She put down the cup. "Well, it's time I was on my way."

He watched her say goodbye to the children, their faces brightening as she whispered something to each of them. He got up and walked to the hall, picking up the suitcases she'd brought and waiting.

When he'd loaded them into the car, he leaned on the edge of the car door, looking down at her.

"Thanks," he said quietly, gesturing around them. "For all of it."

"You're welcome." Marion smiled up at him. "I'm not really as crazy as I look."

His gaze cut away, one side of his mouth lifting. "Yeah, I know."

He stepped back from the car as she started the engine, watching her pull out and drive through the gates. He turned his head as he heard Ellie come up beside him.

"So, what's next?"

She turned to the house and he put his arm around her shoulder, walking with her.

"Finding a creation goddess and putting her back to sleep."

"Well, that should be easy." He looked down at her. "How 'bout we take the kids down to Trish and, uh, do a bit of research on our own?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

**END**


	9. Chapter 9 Fourth of July

**Chapter 9 Fourth of July**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The waiting room was painted in cream and pale blue, a bland, boringly square room, red plastic chairs lining the walls, and a number of framed prints hanging above them. To one side, the receptionist sat, visible through a square window in the wall, head bowed over her paperwork, the multiple coloured strands in her hair gleaming under the fluorescent light above.

Dean kept his gaze on the artwork, above the eyeline of the other people who were waiting there with him. Making eye contact with strangers in doctors' offices was a mistake; he'd learned that a long time ago. Better to look at the floor or the walls or keep your eyes shut than invite a conversation about the possible or actual medical afflictions of the other patients.

He rubbed a hand over his face, and closed his eyes. Ellie had been tired the last two months, more than tired … exhausted half the time, despite the fact that she was sleeping longer and deeper every night. Three times last week, he'd found her crashed on the living sofa, or in the bedroom in the middle of the day, with no other explanation than just feeling tired, and the last time she'd been hard to wake.

"Ah … Dean?"

He looked up, seeing the doc's face peering through the gap between the door frame and his door. He got up, walking slowly toward the consulting room, wondering what could be so wrong that he had to be told personally by Winsett. He could feel a flutter in his stomach as the man held the door wider for him to pass through and closed it behind him.

Ellie sat in the chair next to the desk, her mouth curving up in wry one-sided smile. _Couldn't be too bad_, he thought, relief filling him.

"Congratulations!" Dr Winsett smiled at him as he walked around his desk, gesturing to the seat beside Ellie, and sitting down.

"Uh ..." He looked from the doctor's beaming face to his wife's.

"There's nothing wrong, you're going to be expanding your family," Dr Winsett leaned forward.

"What?" He looked at Ellie, who gave him a slight one-shouldered shrug.

"Now, I've made an appointment for you for the ultrasound next week, down in Bend. That'll be the sixteen-week check; the next one will be at twenty weeks and you can make another appointment for that when you get there." He looked up at them, one brow raised. "Is that going to be suitable?"

Ellie glanced sideways at Dean, seeing his mouth open slightly and close again. She nodded. "That'll be fine."

"Everything is looking fine – although after two, Ellie, I'm a bit surprised you didn't think of it yourself." He looked over the top of his glasses at her, fingers shuffling the papers on the desk.

She smiled thinly. "Things have been kind of hectic lately, and I've never been very regular. And I was on the Pill."

"That particular type isn't as … protective as some of the others. We'll sort out a better one once you're through the next twelve months or so." He nodded, making a note on her file.

"Right. I'll see you after the ultrasound, and we'll make it a monthly appointment until September, and then I want you check in more frequently," he looked at her, smiling. "Well, you know the drill." He stood up and Ellie and Dean got up as well.

"And no more electric gardening tools, Ellie; you let Dean take care of that stuff for awhile," Dr Winsett added as he followed them to the door.

Dean felt his brows rising as he looked at Ellie. She screwed up her face and tapped a finger discreetly against her left shoulder. Belatedly he remembered the cut from the faery sword early last month.

"That's right, leave that stuff to me," he growled, straight-faced. He looked over his shoulder at the doctor. "She's kind of klutzy anyway."

Dr Winsett laughed as he closed the door behind them.

Ellie paid for the consult and tucked her wallet back into her bag, walking out of the offices with her head down, Dean trailing behind her.

"Another baby?" He looked at her as they got in the car.

"Looks like," she said, fastening her seat belt. "Due Christmas."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what he was feeling about it. He was acutely aware of how bad that was, him sitting there staring at the steering wheel in front of him, the silence stretching out slowly.

"Uh …"

"It's okay. Shocked the hell out of me too. Sit with it for a while; we can talk about it later."

He looked at her, nodding gratefully. It was an odd thing he'd discovered about himself over the last few years. If there was any pressure on him to think something through – something like this anyway, he took forever to get it clear in his mind, but if there was no pressure, he'd come to a conclusion quickly and easily, not even thinking about it. Ellie had known that about him almost right from the start. He had no idea how.

* * *

The drive home didn't take long, and as he pulled into their road, they could see that the preparations for the party tomorrow had already started. He slowed down as they passed Idan, Oran and Sariel lugging trestles and long table-tops out to the trucks, loading them in. In front of Sam's house, his brother was on a ladder, stringing lights along the trees, Garth handing him coil after coil.

It had been Sam's idea – a street party for the Fourth – a _hunter's_ street party, that was, and even Frank had been moderately enthusiastic about the idea, volunteering to do a run down to Corvallis and pick up a range of fireworks.

"You know those cars?" He frowned as he saw a half-dozen cars parked in a semi-circle around their gate.

Ellie grinned. "Yeah, that black monster is Laney's truck. Guess they made it after all."

He drove between the cars and into their driveway, brows rising at the crowd of people sitting on the steps and lounging along the porch railing.

"How many hunters has she picked up?"

Ellie twisted around to look past him as he pulled around in front of the house. "A lot more than the last time we saw her."

Dean killed the engine and they got out, walking up to the front porch.

"Dammit, Jer, shift that big butt of yours!" The voice was female, irate and a deep contralto. One of the men moved aside and Laney Pike shot through the gap, almost falling down the stairs and into Dean's arms.

"Laney," Dean grinned down at the diminutive blonde woman. Laney was in her early forties, slender to the point of skinniness, her tan face showing a few lines around her eyes, which were a deep, coffee brown.

"Dammit Dean, why is it you're always witness to my most ungraceful moments?" She laughed, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

"God's way of saving me from temptation?" he smiled, looking over her head at Ellie.

She snorted against his chest, and let him go, turning around to Ellie. "Oh my god, you're knocked up again!"

Ellie's mouth dropped open slightly and in the corner of her eye she saw Dean's brows shoot upward.

"C'mere and give us a hug. That boy is far too virile for his own good – or yours," Laney hugged Ellie with considerably less bone-cracking strength than she'd given Dean. Ellie hugged her back, letting go and looking at her.

"We've just been to the doctor's, Laney – how the hell did you know that?"

Laney grinned and tapped her nose. "I _always_ know. Got a few new folks I really want you to meet," she said, turning and looking at Dean. "Where's Sam at? Tell him to get his butt up here pronto."

Dean pulled his phone out, slipping an arm around Ellie as they followed Laney up the steps.

"Sam, Laney's here, she says she's got a surprise … how should I know? Yeah … anyway, get a move on."

Ellie spotted Trish winding her way through the hunters cluttering up the doorway, her tall, willowy sister-in-law not above shoving the men aside as she came up to them. Tricia smiled at Ellie. "See what happens when you two go off together? We get invaded!"

"Yeah, but it's a _friendly_ invasion, Trish!" the dark blond man said, putting his arm around her.

"You guys know Jeremy and Steve, don't you?" Laney poked the man in front of her, and he turned around, eyes crinkling up as he grinned at Ellie and Dean.

"Hey, nice place you guys got here," Jeremy said, holding a hand out to Dean. "So I'm guessing after Laney's announcement that congrats are in order?"

"Yeah. We … uh, yeah," Dean said, with a shrug, glancing at the other man. "How you doing, Steve?"

"Can't complain – well, hell yeah, I can complain but I ain't gonna. Congratulations," Steve smiled at Dean and Ellie.

The two men were about the same height, but that was the only similarity they had. Jeremy Mann was a third generation hunter, with a long, lanky build, long dark blond hair he kept tied back, and a long face with bright green eyes under sandy brows. Steve Coulson had started hunting seven years ago, during a stint in a lockup in Kentucky. The prison had been filled with ghosts with the rising of Death, and Steve had been one of the two men out of forty-five who'd made it through the night alive. The other man had been his cell mate, Paddy Morrison, a hunter from Missouri, who'd shown him what to do to protect himself. He was broad and packed with muscle, an ex-boxer who could still move lightly on his feet when he needed to. Dark brown curls cut short and bright blue eyes, in a square face with prominent dimples, gave him something of the look of Kurt Russell, a fact that Sam couldn't somehow get over and had to comment about every time they saw him.

Ellie realised it was going to be a weekend with a lot of hugging as she extracted herself from Steve's enthusiastic bear hug. She wasn't sure how long she was going to be able to deal with it, given the latest shock. She already felt like retreating upstairs and spending some time alone. She looked a question at Trish, and got a nod in return.

"They're fine. They settled into the living room with Laney's girls and haven't moved since."

"Guys, this is Emma Jones." Laney stopped in the hallway beside a tall woman with jet-black hair and a strong American Indian heritage, visible in the high, wide cheekbones of her face, in the dark brown almond-shaped eyes. The wariness in her eyes was slightly surprising. She held out her hand to Ellie, a confident strength in the long-fingered grip. "Emma started hunting with us last year, saved my life twice now. Emma, Dean and Ellie Winchester."

"Winchester," Emma smiled as she turned to Dean. "Yeah, that name I've heard a few times."

Dean shrugged. "Don't believe everything you hear about that name."

"Already told her that, Dean. Told her you put your pants on one leg at a time, jus' like every other man!" Laney snorted, turning around as a stocky man with short blond hair came up behind her. "And this is Greg White."

She lifted her face to him and he dropped a kiss on her mouth. "The new man in my life."

Dean took the extended hand. "You must have a lot of energy."

Greg raised a brow at him. "Yeah, you have no idea."

The corners of Dean's mouth tucked in slightly. Ellie hid her own smile as well. Dean had spent a few days with Laney when they'd finished a hunt in Michigan, in 2008, and he had a good idea of how exhausting the pint-sized blonde could be.

"_Like being in bed with an octopus and two bottles of laughing gas." He'd told her a couple of months later. "Didn't think I was going to make it out alive at one point."_

"God almighty!" Laney was looking past them to the doorway. Dean turned, seeing Sam come in. "Gigantor, have you grown again since I saw you last?"

"No." Sam smiled down at her. "You shrank."

"Impossible," she retorted, turning around. "Sam, this is Emma and Greg, you can get to know each other later. Now come on, you gotta meet these folks!"

She grabbed Sam's hand and hooked her other hand out for Dean's, dragging them back out the front door. Ellie lifted an eyebrow at Tricia and they followed behind. Laney stopped beside a young man and woman who were standing at the corner of the porch.

"Dean, Sam, this is Carl … Winchester," she said, with all the gratuitous flair of a ringmaster. "And this … is Charlie Campbell. They're your relations … somehow."

Carl Winchester was six foot tall, broad-shouldered and big-chested, with black hair and dark brown eyes. His lopsided grin was reminiscent of John's as he nodded to the brothers.

"I don't know what they call it, but your dad's dad was my Gramps' brother," he said, with a shrug.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "Well, you'll have to meet Adam sometime."

"Who's Adam?" Carl asked, a genuine, rather gentle curiosity on his face. Looking at him, Ellie thought he couldn't be more than twenty.

"Our half-brother," Sam said. "He's down in Texas right now, helping some other hunters down there."

"Okay, cool."

Charlie Campbell was a little taller than Ellie, with an hourglass figure accentuated by the tight button-through shirt and black denim jeans she wore. She smiled at them, holding out her hand, clear blue eyes sparkling in a heart-shaped face. Her hair was blonde, streaked through with other colours, wavy and cut above her shoulders.

"Hey, I'm not sure what you'd call it either, but my great-uncle Claude, is Joseph Campbell's brother."

"Who's Joseph Campbell?" Dean asked as Sam leaned past him to shake her hand.

"Samuel's grand-daddy," Charlie said, her accent southern Tennessee.

"So, you boys've got some family again!" Laney grinned at them.

Dean felt himself draw back a little at that statement, looking around for Ellie and stepping back to stand beside her. The last time he'd acquired family rapidly and in a bunch, he hadn't liked any of them much. And he had his family, all the family he wanted. Laney had a habit of seeing things in black and white, he knew, and the last time they'd talked had been in '08, when he'd felt differently about things. He supposed that he couldn't blame her for thinking she'd come up with a gift for him and Sam.

"Well, you're all here. Laney and Greg have got the guest room, and the girls can bunk in with Rosie," Ellie said, looking around at the crowd. "Um, I guess Carl and Charlie can stay at your place?" She looked at Sam and Trish.

"Yeah, that's fine with us." Sam nodded and Tricia smiled a second later.

"Listen, the boys'll be fine, they've already organised to sack out at Twist's place for the weekend, we do tend to overwhelm folks as a bunch," Laney said quickly. "I expect a return visit though after next winter – we're going to have more than wendigo the way things are going."

Dean glanced at Ellie. "What do you mean?"

"No talkin' shop till after dinner." Laney shook her head. "This is my vacation and I'm gonna enjoy it."

* * *

Dean was happy to find that Sam's front yard was the flattest, the biggest and the most centrally convenient for the outdoor barbecue dinners that his brother had insisted on for tonight and tomorrow night. He spent a couple of hours lugging tables and chairs around, and then retreated back to the house when he considered he'd done enough.

He found Ellie in the kitchen, wearing a light summer dress, looking cool and composed as she wrapped up the platters of meat, salads and rolls for later. She looked up as he came in, smiling as he looked her over appreciatively then rolled his eyes at the food.

"Sam's going all out," he said, walking up behind her and kissing the side of her neck. "I had no idea he was gonna be so into this."

"How 'all out' is all out?" she asked, leaning back into his arms as she dropped the roll of plastic wrap on the counter.

"Enough Christmas lights to knock out the power supply to the region," he said. "I personally set up enough seating for about five hundred … he's got the stereo speakers hanging out the upstairs windows, but you know we're going to be listening to that crap he likes the whole night."

Ellie smothered a laugh. "Driver picks, Dean, it's your rule."

"Yeah, I know."

She turned around in his arms, running her hands up over his chest, watching as his eyes widened slightly. This was one thing she should've recognised, she thought a little hazily, feeling her breathing become ragged. He bent his head to hers, and she traced the shape of his mouth with her tongue. Second trimester horniness. Always a winner with Dean. She unbuckled his belt, and slid her hands inside the waistband of his jeans.

"Holy –" His eyes closed, his pulse starting to race, and he pulled her close. "Here?"

"Gotta get the kids at four," she whispered against his mouth, pushing his jeans down his hips. "You can manage that, right?"

He laughed breathlessly. "Is this the part of the pregnancy where you can't get enough of me?"

"Yep." She pushed him back to the chair at the table behind him. "This would be that part."

"I love this part," he murmured, watching her strip off her panties, lift the long skirt, and settle herself over him. Ellie smiled down at him.

"I can never get enough of you."

"God, you're dripping." His hands were under the skirt, fingers slipping into her, watching her face when she pushed down hard against them, that ... aching expression sending a shiver through him.

"Been thinking about this for the last hour," she agreed breathlessly and lifted herself, bare feet braced on the chair supports. He moaned softly as she slid down over him, stretching around him, forcing him deeper, her hips swinging slightly as she changed the angle and began to move faster.

"Anyone- could- come- in," he said, hands tightening around her hips, the words coming out between sharply indrawn breaths.

"Then they'll get an eyeful – although," she said, looking down at him with a wicked smile, "you could've had me bent over the table."

The image that jumped into his mind coincided with her moving faster and he bucked up against her helplessly, struggling to hold onto the shreds of his self-control.

"Don't hold back, Laney and Greg are coming up the path," Ellie whispered against his temple, rocking him harder now. His eyes flew open and he saw her smile, her head tipping back as a spiralling tremor rose inside her, gripping him tight. He felt himself tightening, drawing up and wrapped his arms tight around her, holding her still as he thrust through the velvet contractions around him, perversely aching for more when he hit the edge and let go, every nerve on fire as they shuddered against each other.

* * *

Laney came into the kitchen, looking around curiously. Dean looked up, pulling a beer from the fridge, and Ellie turned around, putting down the plastic wrap.

"Were you guys having sex in the kitchen?" The small blonde stood between them, hands on her hips.

Dean laughed. "Us? Nah, we're an old married couple, Laney."

"Could've sworn I saw – well, never mind, don't go going into a rut just 'cos you're married. You should be having sex all over the place," she said.

"Laney, leave 'em alone," Greg walked into the kitchen and stopped beside her. "Don't think these folks are having any problems in that arena."

Ellie looked at him, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at the baseboard next to the pantry door. She followed the flickered look and saw her underwear scrunched up against the wall.

"So what time is Sam's shindig?" Laney sat down at the table and took the beer Dean offered her.

"About five," Dean said, turning to see Ellie swoop down, her hand grabbing something from the floor and dive into her pocket. He felt a nervous laugh tickling the back of his throat as he realised what it was.

She looked over at him, brows raised. "Yep, that's what he said."

Laney looked at her. "Afterwards, we should probably have a pow-wow about what's going on, Ellie."

"Yes. We will." Ellie nodded and glanced at the clock. "Dean –"

He looked at it as well, nodding. "Gotta get the kids."

Greg stood up, glancing at Laney. "I'll get the girls. You two have some catching up to do."

"Thanks, hon," Laney said, watching them as they left.

Ellie walked to the table and sat down, looking at Laney. "We do?"

"You know how much quicker we can cut through the bullshit without all the men around, Ellie," Laney said with a smile. "We need help. A lot of help. We're spread too thin for what we're facing."

Ellie looked at her. "How many do you need?"

"As many as you can spare." She looked out the window at the sunshine-filled garden. "As many as will come."

"You'll meet the Watchers and the nephilim tonight. They've been training for a while now, and it'll be good experience for them. And Twist said he was up for another tour." She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar desire for sleep settle in. Pushing it away, she rubbed her eyes, and regathered her thoughts. "Katherine found Soleil, in Texas. Said she had a few working with her."

Laney blinked in surprise. "God, I haven't heard from that woman in years. Thought she died when the devil rose."

"So did I, but she's always been sneaky." She looked at Laney. "Six or seven from here, and I'll ask Dwight and Katherine to check with Soleil about sending some of hers when they see her next week?"

"That would be great, honey." She shook her head. "I know we'll get the gen on this goddess later, but what's the short version?"

"We've got a spell that will put her back to sleep. But we haven't figured out a way of getting ahead of her yet. Frank's working on it." She straightened her back and sat back in the chair. "That's not what I'm worried about though, Laney."

"You're not worried that we got monsters comin' out of our asses and every hunter we lose makes the odds that much worse?"

Ellie smiled wryly. "Surprisingly, no. What I'm more worried about is who raised her – and why they risked it."

Laney's eyes narrowed. At once, the pretty, outgoing woman disappeared and the hunter, whose reputation for efficient and ruthless kills was well-known across most of the country, sat in her place. "Who _raised_ her?"

"She didn't wake up on her own," Ellie leaned on her elbow, looking at the other woman. "Michael got out, through the Devil's Gate in Pasadena."

Laney's eyes widened suddenly. "You're shitting me."

Ellie shook her head. "Wish I was. He told me the Seven were trying to open the circle. I spoke to a Roma, just recently. She confirmed it. She said that they had raised the oldest goddess but they couldn't control her."

"Hell."

"Yeah." Ellie hid a yawn. "Both Michael and the gypsy told me that the circle needs nine to open it. Michael said that the nephilim are looking for Dean and Sam, and for their children."

"Son of a bitch," Laney looked at her, feeling a wash of fear through her nerves at the thought of them being hunted. "Why?"

"We're not sure why," she answered with a shrug. "Because of the bloodlines? Because of what happened? No idea."

"What are you going to do?"

"We're looking for the pieces – Frank set up a database, and we're feeding the library into it. We could use whatever you have as well. Which reminds me, I need to get Frank to give you some equipment so you can scan your stuff in and send it to him." The next yawn she couldn't hide and Laney's face split into a grin.

"You two were having sex in the kitchen!"

Ellie laughed, colouring a little. "Sixteen weeks."

"Oh boy, I remember that. Lucky you've got him around, I was climbing the friggin' walls!" The smiled faded away as she looked at Ellie. "I'm sorry for making a thing about Carl and Charlie. Didn't think of how he'd see it – or how you would – just kept thinking of him telling me how much he missed his family."

"It's okay, Laney," Ellie said. "Everything changes, doesn't it? Life seemed pretty damned simple back then."

"Yeah, got that right." She got up and took her bottle to the trash can. "What happened to Michael?"

"I killed him." Ellie stood up, looking away. The memory of it, and what had followed were still too tender to look at closely. "He was a demon. And he didn't want to go back."

"I'm sorry." She put her arms around Ellie.

"At least he's free now." Ellie leaned on her for a moment, then straightened. "I'm going to crash for an hour or so. Make yourself at home."

"Will do."

* * *

Closing the door of the bedroom behind her, Ellie felt the unacknowledged tensions she'd been carrying for the past few hours disappear. She walked to the windows, drawing the curtains. In the cool dimness, she stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes.

A baby. Another child. Another hostage to fortune and whatever it was that was hunting for Dean and Sam and the children. She hadn't told Laney about the powers that were manifesting slowly in John and Rosie, in Marc and Laura and Adrienne. Hunters overall weren't a logical bunch. Sooner or later, someone would hear about it and decide that they weren't human.

Her hands curved protectively over her stomach. From past experience, she knew she wouldn't start to show for another month at least, and then nothing overt until she was at least seven months. She searched through her feelings, her thoughts, for how she felt about it, and found her mouth curving up into an involuntary smile. The child would be another part of Dean, and that was always a good thing. She felt a wave of warmth roll over her, a deep and yearning ache, a richly textured blanket of love for the man who'd held her heart for so many years. People said that love faded away, or disappeared, under the familiarity of living together, under the pressure of having a family. That wasn't her experience. Every year – every _day_ – the way she felt for him got stronger, more complex, deeper and wider and higher, giving her strength and courage that she didn't think she'd have otherwise, just from being with him.

She rolled onto her side, her eyes closing. His love of family was much greater than hers, even now. He'd given her the joy of their children, shown her the contentment of really belonging somewhere, feeling safe and loved and accepted, taught her that you didn't give up who you were when you loved deeply, you became more yourself, because someone else could see all those things that you believed could never be shown, never be understood. He hadn't believed her when she'd told him that, had said that it was the other way around. But without him, she wouldn't have been here, this person, in this place.

* * *

Dean looked around the garden, the lights and tables and people wiping out everything familiar in it. He had to admit that Sam had done a good job. Except for the music. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch the lyrics of the song playing softly from the house – couldn't even make out the beat, it was so low – and there was no melody, just a repetitive riff with the mumbling singer overriding it every now and then.

"This would have to be the most bizarre situation I've ever seen hunters in," Emma said quietly, as she sat down beside him, jeans and jacket exchanged for a short shift dress, tanned arms and legs bare. He turned to look at her, one brow raised.

She gestured at the fairy lights, strung through the trees and overhead to the house, the tables scattered over the lawn. "If someone didn't know better, they might think that you've all been turned into house-pets."

"You might want to see what we can do before you start making judgement calls," Dean responded, his voice soft.

She smiled lazily at him. "I wasn't trying to offend."

"Sure you were."

"It's just … I mean, Dean and Sam Winchester …" She looked across the yard at Sam, who was talking to Idan and Sima, holding Adrienne against his shoulder as Tricia cleared away another load of dishes. "You guys had – have – the reputations of being the best … bad-ass hunters who've brought down everything, and you're … here … dandling kids on your knees, in white-bread suburbia, under fucking fairy lights."

Dean inclined his head slightly. "Too lame for you?"

She leaned toward him, resting her chin on her hand. "Yeah."

His lip curled up. "Too bad. We like it this way."

"Really? You don't feel like you've been … neutered?"

Dean's laughter burst out unexpectedly, and she drew back a little, eyes narrowing.

"Oh sweetheart, you've been watching way too many movies." He picked up his beer, getting up from the table. "No offence."

He walked up to the house. _Neutered_, he thought. First time he'd heard that one. He wasn't sure if she'd been trying to come onto him or just trying to pick a fight. Either way, he wondered how Laney had found working with her. Hunters working together made a close-knit pack, and one flakey female could do an awful lot of damage to a group like that.

* * *

Four tables had been put together, and every seat was filled. Ellie looked around the faces surrounding it, familiar ones and new ones, wondering what their reaction would be when they'd heard it all.

"The increase in the populations of every kind of monster and the mutations and deformities that have been found on some of the species, is due to the raising of ancient goddess, name of _Asase Ya_. She's a creation goddess, probably the creation goddess, and she's been roaming the country over the last eight months." Frank looked down at the files in front of him, then looked up, his face expressionless as he looked around the faces of the people watching him.

"She didn't just get up. She was raised by a ritual that was supposed to have been lost – like so many others, it wasn't lost, just hidden." He cleared his throat. "I think I've found a key – a signature – that will give us a way to track her and possibly get ahead of her. Where she goes, things grow – and not in a normal way. They grow fast and tall, forced into maturity at a rate many times more than natural. In addition to the monster populations increasing, the human population has also seen a surge in births, and in mutations."

"There are a dozen countries using a newish technology to map climate change across the globe using multiple filters and satellite photography. Took me until last week to be able to hack into them, but I've got enough data now to form a baseline. Another few days and I hope to see a pattern in the way she's moving. Once we have that we can go and get her." He looked at Dean. "We'll need three teams of two or three each."

Dean nodded. "Depending on where we find her, we'll have enough with us and any local talent." He glanced at Laney who nodded.

"Good. That brings us to who raised her." Frank pushed his glasses back up his nose, and opened another file. "The intel we have is that the seven firstborn children of the Watchers have rejoined and are trying to build something called the circle." He looked at Baraquiel, gesturing with one hand.

"The Circle is a part of our mythology, from Heaven, before we Fell." Baraquiel stood, looking around the table. His voice was deep and mellifluous, the smooth, mellow tones of a cello. Taller than most people, he was a broad-shouldered, lean-hipped man with a long fall of deep auburn hair, unlined pale skin and deep blue eyes. Like all the Watchers and many of the nephilim, his beauty was almost too perfect to be considered human. "It was a ritual to build a … way back … to Heaven, for us if we failed at our tasks. It needed nine children – the firstborn child of each of us – to be completed."

"Nine? I thought there were only seven of the firstborn?" Steve looked across the table at the Watcher, brows drawn together.

Beside Dean, Sam turned and whispered. "There, right there, doesn't he look like Russell?"

Dean rolled his eyes at him. "Every time, Sam?"

"There were twelve Fallen, chosen by God, to teach humanity the fruits of the Tree of Knowledge," Baraquiel said quietly. "We were sent to this plane before the First War, before Lucifer rebelled. When the rebellion came, three of the Watchers joined with Lucifer, and their children with them. They were killed in the conflict." He drew in a deep breath, his face taut with his memories. "Of the nine remaining, we all had sons or daughters to our human wives. The Circle required nine. When Lucifer was defeated and thrown into the cage in Hell, our council made a decision to destroy any chance of the Circle being used by Lucifer to regain entrance to Heaven."

Frank cleared his throat. "The Seven firstborns are Idra, son of Baraquiel. Maluch, son of Bezaliel. Chasina, daughter of Sariel. Chuma, son of Chazaquiel. Kitra, daughter of Penemue. Lazio, son of Shamsiel. And Reuma, daughter of Araquiel. They're here, somewhere in the country but we haven't been able to locate them yet."

Bezaliel looked across to Dean and Ellie. "They may come here."

Ellie nodded. She didn't want to have that conversation in front of everyone. "Laney needs more hunters to go back with her. Volunteers only."

Chazaquiel stood up, and with him, Twist, Idan, Oran, Sariel and Sima. Amidst the two Watchers and three nephilim, Twist looked battered and very human.

"How long we staying for, Laney?"

"As long it takes to wipe out the immediate threats. If we get a chance at the goddess before that, we'll help out there." She shot a look at Frank, who shrugged.

As Ellie sat back down, Dean slid out of his seat. "Back in a minute."

She watched him zigzag under the shadows to the house for a minute, then turned back to the table.

"Frank, Laney needs the scanners and the software to download her library to you," she called across the table. He nodded and picked up the files, skirting around the chairs until he reached her.

"I'll talk to her in the morning about what's she got there." He looked around the table. "Good move on not giving them the full story on the nine firstborn," he added softly.

She looked up at him, her mouth twisting. "We don't need factions right now."

"No, we don't."

_Well you wake up in the mornin´ you hear the work bell ring._

Sam's head snapped around as the song poured out of the speakers at almost full volume.

_And they march you to the table to see the same old thing._

"Yeah, that's more like it," Steve laughed, extending his hand to Emma.

Dean sauntered casually back through the shadows, meeting his brother's glower with an innocent look. "What?"

_Ain´t no food upon the table and no pork up in the pan._

"What happened to driver picks, Dean?"

Dean looked at the table, gesturing expansively. "Dude, they wanted something different."

_But you better not complain boy you get in trouble with the man._

Steve and Emma were dancing to one side of the table as the song picked up tempo, and Idan was walking with Charlie to the other side. Laney and Greg were singing along as the whiskey bottle was passed around.

_Let the Midnight Special, shine a light on me,_

_Let the Midnight Special, shine an ever-lovin' light on me_

Sam sighed.

* * *

Ellie turned to watch Dean as he dropped his clothes onto the floor beside the bed. It was just past one, and they could still hear the music playing down at Sam's place.

"You know anything about Emma?" He slid into the bed beside her. She looked at him, a small crease appearing between her brows.

"Not much. She grew up in Idaho, on a reservation, I think. Her people were wiped out when she was a kid, a nest of vampires. She was the only survivor and she started hunting with Gordon Walker. Ellen mentioned seeing them together from time to time."

Dean grimaced. "God, what a fucking mentor to start with."

She nodded. "Laney said she quit Walker after a couple of years, was hunting down in New Mexico for a while. Why?"

"She, uh, seems to think that Sam and me have turned into house-pets," he said with a slight grin, looking down at her. "Asked me if I felt neutered."

Ellie snorted into the pillow. "Every woman who wants to get into your pants thinks that, Dean."

He rolled onto his side, propping himself on his elbow. "That's the first time I've heard it."

"You don't remember that woman last year, the one who came in with Twist for a few days?" Ellie stretched out. "Uh, Mandy? She told me I'd ruined you for life."

He frowned. "The blonde who couldn't hit a barn if she was next to it?"

"Yep."

"And how'd you ruin me for life, exactly?"

She smiled, and said with a twanging Southern accent, "That man, honey, he should be free, not chained down to a wife and kids like any old dude. He's a warrior!"

Dean's eyes widened. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

"That's, uh, kind of creepy," he said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you knew," Ellie said, looking at him. "Actually, with all of them, I kind of assumed they were talking to you first, and then coming to me when that didn't work."

"All of them? How many have there been?"

"A few." She thought about it for a moment. "Seven or eight, at least. I haven't actually had to fight anyone for you yet, but I'm sure it'll happen."

"This is insane." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking down at her smile. "This isn't funny, it's creeping me out."

Ellie shrugged. "It's the rep, Dean. Well, among other things."

She ran her hand over his ribs, and he shook his head. "And you're okay with random chicks telling you to get out of the way?"

"Not much I can do about it." She grinned at him. "You're too hot."

"Nuh-uh," he said, catching her hand and holding it still. "Next time, tell me. I mean it."

"Sure." She looked down at her hand, trapped by his against his chest. "I thought you'd find it funny."

He chewed the corner of his lip. He'd had a lot more offers in the last few years than when he and Sam had been hunting together. He'd put it down to being more or less in one place. And that great drawcard, being unavailable. At first, it _had_ been kind of funny, in a perverse sort of way. Then it had become irritating. Now, he felt annoyed. "I thought having this would be clear enough." He held up his left hand, the gold band glinting in the light from the lamp.

"Nope, that's just a challenge," Ellie said, with a soft sigh.

Dean shook his head again. Everything he'd done – everything they'd gone through, had bled and suffered through – to get to here, this place where he was completely himself and happy and comfortable, didn't these chicks see that? Didn't they see how much he loved this woman lying beside him, the mother of his children, the person who'd given him everything he wanted and had never let him down?

"It's insulting," he said, his voice grating slightly. Ellie looked at him, seeing his rising anger.

"They don't know you, or what you've done, or anything about you," she said gently.

"Exactly." He focussed on her.

"So why get worked up about it?" She wriggled close to him, slipping her arm around his neck.

"How can you be so calm about it? They want you to disappear!"

"They can want what they like, it's not going to happen, is it?" she said, smiling at him.

"No." He looked down at her, feeling the anger subsiding. "Not in a million years."

She lifted her face to him and he kissed her, the deep pulse of desire filling him instantly, and wiping out everything else.

* * *

Laney wandered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, as Ellie added a fresh batch of pancakes to the breakfast table, and Dean lifted a couple onto Rosie's plate and passed the plate to Sara, Laney's oldest daughter. Sara looked up at her mother's face and shook her head, exchanging a look with her sister.

"Coffee," Laney said, her deep voice almost rumbling as she squinted around the bright kitchen.

Dean grinned at Ellie and got up, getting a cup and filling it. He pushed Laney into a chair at the end of the table and put the cup down in front of her.

"Hard night?"

"Great night. Hard morning," Laney muttered, curling both hands around the cup and sipping the black coffee gratefully. She opened an eye to look at her daughters.

"You guys okay?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mom."

At six and a half, Sara had already taken on the role of her mother's helper. Dean repressed a smile at the tolerant look she gave her mother. Leah was two years younger and worshipped her older sibling, her expressions occasionally reminded him of Sam's, when he'd been very little.

"Everyone else hungover too?" He sat down beside his daughter, glancing back at Laney's drawn face.

"Probably."

He snorted, and looked at Sara. "What do you guys want to do today?"

"Um, Aunty Trish said she could take us down to Bend today, and do some shopping." Sara glanced sideways at her mother.

"Uh … that woman's a sucker for a sweet face, honeypie." Laney leaned her head on her hand. "It's okay with me, come and get some money first, and make sure you get new clothes for school, okay?"

"Yes, Mom." Sara gave her little sister a very discreet high-five.

"Can we go too, Dad?" John looked up at Dean imploringly. Rosie turned immediately to her father.

"Can we?"

Dean looked at Ellie, "Uh …"

"I'll talk to Aunty Trish first, John," she said, one brow raised at Dean. "I'm not sure she had it in her mind to take along seven kids when she made the offer."

"Tamsin's going too," John said immediately. "Please, Dad, please?"

Laney laughed at Dean's hunted expression. "Better wait and see what your mom says, John. She's a hard case, no one's ever won an argument with her yet."

Ellie gave her a sour look. "Opponents who are lacking in logic do not make me a hard case."

"Dad, come on, we'll be good," John persisted with his father, knowing he was easier to wear down than his mother.

"I rest my case." Laney swallowed her coffee. "Any Tylenol around here?"

"If we all go, do you want to see if we can find that park to play in again?" Sara asked John, and Leah shouted her approval.

Ellie walked to the cupboard and got a bottle down from the top shelf. "Go back to bed, you're on vacation."

"Daddy, Daddy, we go? Can we? Go?" Rosie climbed into Dean's lap and stared into his eyes from a distance of two inches, her nose almost touching his.

"We'll see what your mom says, Rosie," he prevaricated awkwardly. "Have you finished your breakfast?"

"Yes!"

"Yeah, I'll need a vacation from the vacation." Laney took the bottle from Ellie, shaking two pills into her palm and swallowing them, washing them down with the rest of the coffee. "I need grease, carbs and ketchup."

"I'll make her something, if you want go and talk to Trish," Dean said, getting up and swinging Rosie around before he put her back in her chair. "Head off the potential rebellion before it starts."

Ellie nodded and looked around at the children. "If you guys do want to go to town, you'd better get out of your PJs and dressed."

They slid off their chairs and disappeared into the hallway, their shrieks echoing in the stairwell as they thundered up the stairs. The kitchen's silence seemed very deep for a moment.

"Nice job," Laney said, closing her eyes. "Now I can actually think again."

Ellie walked out into the hall, and grabbed her jacket.

"Bacon, eggs, toast?" Dean went to the fridge, looking back over his shoulder at Laney.

She nodded. "Man-sized breakfast, please." She watched him pull out a pan from the cupboard, lay the bacon strips on the broiler and put the bread in the toaster.

"You're nicely domesticated," she commented lightly. He turned to look at her, brow raised.

"Yeah, I can do laundry too. And give the kids their baths, change diapers, take out the trash, load the dishwasher ... you think I should leave everything to Ellie?"

"God, no, I'm impressed. I've never found a hunter who'll pull his weight in the house." She yawned, knuckling her eyes. "I'll have to get Ellie's secret off her."

He snorted, flipping the eggs. "She didn't do anything."

"Yeah? All your own idea?"

He glanced back at her again, mouth twisting up to one side. "I guess this explains why Emma – and every other unattached female hunter apparently – thinks Sam and me have been beaten into submission."

Laney laughed. "Well, Dean, last time we were together, you were kind of … wild. I would've laid down serious money that I'd never see you with kids and a house, standing at a stove and cooking breakfast for a hungover house guest."

He smiled dryly at the eggs, sliding them out of the pan and onto a plate. "Even back then, Laney, I wanted a family so bad I could taste it."

She looked at him in surprise. "Bull."

He took out the bacon and buttered the toast, adding them to the plate. "Nope. That was what I dreamed of."

He put the plate in front of her and went to the coffee pot, pouring himself another cup.

"Well, I didn't see it," she said, piling her eggs and bacon on top of the toast and squirting ketchup over the pile.

"No one did," he said quietly, sitting down across from her. "Back then, I thought it was a weakness, to want that stuff. And I never thought I'd get it."

She looked up at him, mouth full, one eyebrow arched.

He shrugged, smiling. "Now I know better."

She swallowed and shook her head. "If you say so."

"Where's Moses?"

"Died a year ago." She looked down at her plate for a long moment. "A pack of skinwalkers, in St Louis."

"I'm sorry." Dean watched her slowly cut up her food. "Greg alright?"

"He's a good guy." She loaded her fork. "And he wants to stay."

Dean nodded. "You might get domesticated too."

Her mouth twisted up at the corner as she looked at him. "Might."

"This woman, Emma," he said slowly, looking down into his cup. "What do you think of her?"

"Why?" She frowned at him.

"She said something last night," he said. "I'm not sure if it was a pass, or if she was trying to pick a fight, but it didn't seem friendly and it made me wonder if she's going to screw up your team."

Laney nodded, chewing her mouthful. "It would've been a pass. She's asked me about you and Sam a few times. Must have heard some pretty awesome rumours from someone." She put her fork down and got up, going to the coffee pot to refill her cup. "She's neutral with our group, at home. Doesn't shit where she eats."

"It's not going to work out so good for us working with you if she thinks she can stir things up here."

"No. I'll have a word with her." She sat down again. "I should've done it before we got here. I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "I just don't want anything to be more complicated than it already is. What's coming, we're going to need everyone, and I want to be sure, really sure, that we're all on the same side."

"Yeah, got that."

"Is she any good?" He looked at her curiously.

Laney grimaced slightly, getting another forkful. "You heard who she trained with?"

"Gordon?"

"Yeah." She looked up at him. "That ought to tell you something right there. Yeah, she's good. She's fast and accurate, she does the job. She gets emotional sometimes, a bit too bloodthirsty. She lost her whole family, hell, her whole tribe, when she was fifteen. It did something to her."

He nodded. "Is she a liability?"

"Not to me." Laney tucked her food into her cheek. "She took a bullet for me six months ago, so I'm kind of biased about her, but no, I think she has the control that's needed."

* * *

Ellie helped Trish load the kids into the mini-van. "You sure about this?"

Tricia laughed. "My god, it's just a shopping trip with a few kids, Ellie; I'm not taking them into the wilderness for weeks."

"Yeah, but … you'll have eight, with Henry."

"My cousin, Max, has nine kids. All through college I spent my weekends earning money babysitting them. Trust me, I know how to deal with a pack." She checked the seatbelts and closed the door. "And this lot are positively angelic compared to Max's brood."

"Okay, call if you need help," Ellie said doubtfully. "And have … as good a time as you can."

"We'll be back around three or four." She climbed into the driver's side. "Stop worrying!"

Ellie waved as Tricia started the engine and reversed down the drive, watching them disappear down the road. Compared to Trish, she felt completely non-maternal. The idea of a day spent herding a bunch of kids around a shopping centre was right up there with facing a demon's nest so far as she was concerned. Actually, the demon's nest was preferable, she realised. She rested her hand over her stomach lightly, looking down at it. _You've just got a head-case for a mom, little one_, she told the baby inside ruefully.

She walked back up the road, feeling the morning starting to heat up. If they were going to do any training today, she thought, it'd better be now. Any later and it would be too hot.

* * *

To her surprise, the dojo was filled with people. Emma and Charlie were on the asymmetric bars and balance beam. Steve was sparring with Sam at one end of the floor, and Jeremy with Sima at the other. Chaz, Greg and Twist were working on the punching bags along the far wall. She turned to look at Dean.

"Guess we have to take a number."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Guess so."

Ellie turned and walked down to the mats near the bars. She could at least warm up, she thought, finding a clear spot where she wouldn't run into anyone, or anything, and starting the stretches.

Dean went down to the other end of the long building, watching Sam's bout with interest as he passed by. Despite his brother's longer reach, they looked about even, neither having the advantage in speed or weight.

Emma and Charlie finished their warm up and moved to the floor as Sam landed a mean hook and Steve went down. The older man laughed, rubbing his jaw and rolling to his feet.

"Nice. Didn't even see that comin'," he said, holding out his hand. Sam grinned at him, taking it.

"Yeah, well you were wearing me out, I had to do something."

They cleared the floor as the two women moved onto it, sitting down on the bench that ran along the wall to watch.

Ellie moved onto the bars, watching Charlie and Emma in glimpses, feeling the satisfying pull and stretch of her muscles as she worked. Another couple of months and she would have to stop, the hormones that began the slow release of the muscle and tendon softeners in preparation for birth would put her at risk of injury. Back to yoga and meditation then, she thought.

She flipped off the top bar and landed smoothly, balanced and light. It had taken almost eight months to get back to here after the Rome gig, and she closed her eyes, searching her body for stiffness or weakness, smiling slightly as she found none.

She walked over to the bench, sitting down beside Steve and watching the women on the floor.

Charlie was less experienced, she thought, watching the younger woman circling Emma. She didn't yet know how to read an opponent, didn't know how to use her slightly greater weight to its advantage. Emma … Emma looked like she'd been trained by Walker. She was cold and light-footed, experienced and fast. She watched as Charlie got a little too close, and Emma's fist snapped out, the thump on Charlie's cheekbone clearly audible, the punch not pulled in the slightest. Charlie shook her head, retreating out of range as she tried to get her concentration back.

The attack, when it came was almost too fast to see. Emma's foot slammed into Charlie's ribcage, sending the woman cartwheeling across the floor, and the taller woman was on her in a flash, one arm hooked around her neck as the other lifted, elbow pointed for a temple strike. The strike stopped just at the skin, but Ellie saw the blonde shudder, as if she hadn't been sure that the killing blow would be stopped, and she wondered at the relationship between the two of them.

Emma got to her feet, and held out her hand to Charlie, pulling her up.

"You really need to work on your speed, honey, you're just too slow."

"No one's as fast as you, Emma, and you know it. If you're going to spar with Charlie, you should be teaching her, not kicking her ass," Steve called out, a slight edge of anger in his tone.

"Even an ass-kicking is a lesson, Steve," she said with a slow smile as she walked toward them. Her gaze turned to Ellie. "I hear you're pretty fast, do you feel like a round?"

Ellie smiled back at her. "Sure."

She stood up, and walked out onto the floor, feeling the spring in the boards beneath her bare feet, turning and facing Emma as she approached.

She was fast and she had a weight and height advantage, Ellie thought consideringly, not as much as Sam or Dean when she faced them, but she would still need to keep out of the woman's reach. She looked into Emma's face as they stood close together, seeing a smug satisfaction in the other woman's eyes. She was looking forward to this, she realised, looking forward to what she thought would be an easy win. She wondered briefly why, then shut out the thought, taking a deep breath and expelling everything she didn't need.

She wasn't aware of the silence in the long room, the men coming up from the other end to watch. She watched Emma as they moved slowly around each other, recording her observations with a cool objectivity. Trained by Gordon Walker, scarred by the loss of her family and friends, she could see Emma's weaknesses, the emotions that were just under the surface, powering her strength with their explosiveness, but putting her in constant danger of losing control. She was arrogant, considered herself the best that Laney's group had to offer, with the most wins, the most kills. She'd never faced an opponent she'd feared. It was another weakness, not knowing yourself well enough to understand that fear was a tool too. She was underestimating her, Ellie could see, not even considering that she didn't know anything about her. She turned those things over in her mind, seeing how they could be used.

Emma attacked in an eyeblink, foot lashing out and finding nothing as Ellie faded away from her, losing her balance with the over-extension. Ellie watched her correct, seeing the thinly veiled astonishment in the dark eyes as she realised how fast her target had moved away. Rethinking that one, Ellie thought.

On the sideline, Dean watched the women, feeling an uneasy flutter in his stomach. He hadn't seen Emma's bout with Charlie, but he could see the red patch along the girl's cheekbone, skin torn off and purpling as the bruising started to come up. Emma wasn't sparring, he thought, watching the dark-haired woman. She would fight full out, doing as much damage as she could. And Ellie was pregnant, vulnerable to a blow. He stared at them, his nerves making his muscles twitch with reaction, not knowing if he should stop them or not. He trusted Ellie, trusted her instincts, her judgements ... trusted her speed and her skill. It didn't stop him from fearing for her.

She attacked again, this time charging in close. There was a gasp beside him from Steve as the man saw Ellie shift slightly, the closed fist passing her face within an inch, the next moment a blur to everyone watching, and Ellie was out of reach, moving back. Emma lay on the floor, rubbing the side of her knee as she got to her feet again, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth.

"Looks like you finally met someone better, Emma," Jeremy called out derisively. Emma's head snapped around, her eyes narrowed as she glared at him, then turned back to Ellie.

_Great, make her madder, why don't you_, Dean thought sourly, seeing the flush of red over the woman's cheeks. He looked at his wife. Ellie's face was smooth and impassive, her movements light and perfectly balanced. He'd faced her a million times and knew how it felt to watch her, looking for tells, looking for predictability, for any sign of what she would do next … and find absolutely nothing. He could see that Emma was learning that now, brows drawing together slightly as she waited for something to telegraph what her opponent was thinking.

It was a strange fight to watch, he thought later when he was able to analyse the action without his emotions clouding him, moments of blurred action interleaved with complete stillness as they watched each other. Twice Emma over-extended, believing she could make the move count, and had run into Ellie's hand or foot, not learning from the encounters, not believing that she was facing someone faster, more skilled. He almost felt sorry for her. But not quite, because as the fight went on, it was getting more and more apparent that Emma was looking for a way to hurt Ellie as much as she could. He could see that Ellie had recognised that as well. Both women were still breathing easily, their stamina holding up, both were lightly sheened in perspiration.

His throat closed up as Emma attacked again, and Ellie's foot slid slightly on the smooth wood floor, her balance shifting and letting the woman's fist through her guard. He had to check his own forward step when he saw her spring awkwardly aside, twisting and riding the body blow to her ribcage. Emma closed in tight, and her elbow lifted, swinging for Ellie's throat. The next moment was all but inexplicable to those watching as Ellie snapped her head back, catching the elbow just before it hit with both hands and throwing herself backwards, Emma's momentum and weight adding to the speed of the move, Ellie's foot flashing up and planting in the woman's stomach, the length of her leg straightening out as her back hit the floor. Emma soared in an arc over her head, eyes wide with astonishment as she hit the floor several feet away with a resounding bang, winded and uncertain of what had happened.

Ellie was on her feet as Emma rolled over and got up, standing still, waiting. Dean's mouth compressed as he held down a snort of laughter. Sneaky. Tricky. Unpredictable. He could have told Emma that about his wife, if she'd bothered to ask before challenging Ellie. He looked at the graze along Ellie's jaw, and the splotchy red lump patch on her upper arm and thought that he probably wouldn't have told her. Bitch was just too vindictive.

Watching Emma walk back toward her, Ellie could see the fury in the dark eyes, the fast pulse at her throat. Whatever the emotions were that drove her, they were all right up there now, she thought. It was time to end it, before she lost any more control. She waited, flat-footed, hands by her sides, offering an opening that she was sure the other woman would be unable to resist. Emma's hands had risen, curled into fists as she got closer, the squeak of her boot soles on the floor the only noise in the room. She was wary now, looking for the trick, Ellie thought, pivoting slowly in place as the dark-haired woman circled her.

Emma stepped in, the combination fast and accurate. Ellie's forearm swept the first punch past its intended target, her head flicking to one side as the second shot past her ear and Emma overbalanced and fell in toward her. She hooked her foot behind the other woman's leg and twisted her hip, putting all of her weight behind the stiff-fingered jab that hit Emma in the solar plexus, precisely over the nerve centre. The blow shocked the nerves that lay there, and the taller woman fell to the floor, eyes rolling up as her diaphragm struggled to get air into her lungs, the muscles frozen in paralysis.

Ellie knelt beside her, massaging the area slowly, until she could breathe on her own again. She looked down at the white face of the woman lying on the floor. "You done?"

Emma nodded, taking the hand that Ellie extended to her, gripping it as the redhead pulled her to her feet. She sucked in a lungful of air, hissing at the pain the movement provoked.

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" There was a thread of something in the woman's voice.

"Here and there," Ellie said, letting go of her. "I don't really follow a single technique."

"No, I could see that."

Ellie gestured slightly at her chest. "You alright?"

She nodded. "I will be. That was …" She glanced at Steve, sitting on the bench, "… an interesting lesson."

Ellie's eyes narrowed slightly as she smiled. "It was just a sparring bout, Emma. No need to read anything more into it than that."

She turned away, walking over to Dean, taking the towel he held for her.

"You okay?" he asked in a low voice.

She nodded. "Just hard work to make it look easier than it was." She wiped the sweat from her face and neck. "She's fast, and skilled. And she doesn't have much control over what she's feeling."

"Yeah, Laney said that too." He slid his arm around her. "Want to watch me getting beaten up next?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

He laughed, his hand lifting her chin to kiss her. "If I do, I expect a lot of TLC afterwards."

"Full massage, the works," she promised him, trying to quell the flutter of hormone-enhanced desire that his kiss had brought. It really was too much to be this aware of him for the third time – and when the damned house was full of guests.

* * *

Ellie sat next to Tricia, cradling a half-asleep Rosie in her arms as they waited for the fireworks, Zeppelin pouring out of the speakers from the house, signifying another win for Dean on the music front.

_Leaves are falling all around,  
It's time I was on my way_

"What's going on over there?" She peered through the darkness at the spot on the other side of the garden that had been designated for the fireworks, fenced off to keep the kids out.

_Thanks to you, I'm much obliged  
For such a pleasant stay._

Tricia laughed, tucking the blanket more closely around the baby in her arms. "Frank thinks that because he went and got them, the fireworks are his responsibility. Sam is insisting that it's his house, and his garden and his idea to even have the party, so he should be the one setting them off. Dean … actually I don't know why Dean is over there."

Ellie sighed. "I do."

_But now its time for me to go,  
The autumn moon lights my way._

On the other side of the table, Laney sat with Sara and Leah. She leaned across toward Ellie.

"Greg told me about Emma."

Ellie looked at her quizzically. "Just a sparring match, Laney."

Laney shook her head. "Bullshit. Greg told me she came after you with everything she had."

_And with it pain,  
And it's headed my way._

The corner of Ellie's mouth tucked in slightly. "Well, it wasn't enough."

"Don't brush it off, Ellie." She lowered her voice. "Are you okay?"

"As you see." Ellie shrugged. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Yeah, well I got a pretty damned filthy look from Dean at dinner, so I'm guessing it was some kind of deal." Laney said. "I don't want to lose my oldest friends over it."

_Ramble on,  
And now's the time, the time is now  
To sing my song…_

"You won't," Ellie reassured her.

"Is she too unstable?"

Ellie lifted a hand in a vague gesture. "I don't know her, Laney. She gets emotional, but I don't even know why she was mad at me."

Tricia turned around and looked at Laney. "Sam said she wanted to fight Ellie. And that it looked like she wanted to kill her by the time they were two minutes into it."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Ellie said. She remembered the fight as a series of moves, not the emotions, not her thoughts. It was the same with every one. Emma had been smug, sure of herself, and in the increasing grip of her anger, Ellie thought. Beyond that, she couldn't remember the details.

Tricia shook her head. "He was sure of it. He said he thought he'd have to jump in if she got the drop on you."

Laney looked thoughtfully at her and back to Ellie. "She gave Charlie a pretty good hit today. She's never done that before."

"I don't know what to tell you, Laney," Ellie said. "She wasn't pulling her punches with Charlie, I saw that. And she definitely wasn't with me, but what that means, for you, for your team –"

A whistling noise filled the garden, overriding the music and the conversations, and the sky exploded into colour, golden and purple sparks falling across the blackness. Rosie jerked awake, and Ellie lifted her up, pointing at them. Another one went off, exploding like a star above them, everyone in the garden making the universal noise for fireworks … oooooh … aaaahhhhh. Rosie's eyes were like saucers, and Ellie looked around for her son.

Laney looked up as well, wondering what the hell the deal was. After Greg had told her about the fight, she'd gone to talk to Emma. The woman had admitted to losing her temper after Jeremy's comment, but had sworn up and down that she hadn't been deliberately trying to hurt Ellie. And, she'd said, she'd had no chance of doing so anyway.

She didn't want to ask Dean about it. But she could talk to Sam, his opinion would be pretty objective, she thought. She leaned back as Leah crawled into her lap, and Sara leaned against them both. She didn't want a loose cannon in her team. But she didn't want to ditch Emma unless she had to either. She scratched the puckered scar under her collarbone absently. She had saved her life. Twice.

Ellie shifted on the bench as Dean walked up with John on his shoulders. He settled himself behind her, lifting John down.

She looked over her shoulder at him as the next rocket launched itself into the sky, and the explosion of silver and blue and yellow painted his face with vivid colour.

"You didn't have a shot, did you?"

He looked at her, a grin spreading across his face. "Nah. I gave them my experience and references but no hope; they're fighting over them like little kids."

"Got the music, though," Ellie said, tilting her head slightly as the chorus roared out of the speakers.

_Gonna ramble on, sing my song  
Gotta keep-a-searchin for my baby...  
Gonna work my way, round the world  
I can't stop this feelin in my heart  
Gotta keep searchin for my baby_

The grin got wider.

Dean leaned forward, shifting John to one knee as he pulled Ellie back toward him, kissing her under another burst of light and colour. They looked up together as a series of crackling, popping silver and red rockets exploded above them, John open-mouthed, and Rosie covering her ears, Dean's arms wrapped around all of them.

He glanced at Trish and saw Sam sitting there, not looking that unhappy to have been banished by Frank. His brother turned his head, mouth quirking to one side as he caught Dean's gaze and nodded slightly.

* * *

Ellie stood next to Laney on the front porch, watching Dean, Frank and Greg load the equipment into the back of the truck.

"See you soon, eh gorgeous?" Jeremy stopped beside them, and hugged Ellie.

"Not sure how soon, Jer, but sometime," Ellie said, smiling up at him. "You look after yourself, no playing hide-and-seek with monsters without backup."

"No ma'am." He lifted his hand and walked down the steps, stopping to say goodbye to Dean and Frank then heading out for his car.

"Quick! Gimme a kiss while Dean's looking," Steve's voice was in her ear and she snorted, dodging his lips and kissing him on the cheek chastely.

"Get outta here, Steve, and take your death wish with you," Laney said to him as he walked down the steps. "What is it with men?"

"Genetic imperative to compete," Ellie said, looking around as Carl, Charlie and Emma walked up to them.

"It was nice to meet you," Charlie said, glancing past them to Laney's truck. "I should go say bye to Sam as well."

Ellie's mouth tucked in at the corners at the young woman's obvious disinterest. "Nice meeting you too, Charlie. I think Sam's coming up in a minute."

"Uh, I was going to ask Laney if I could come back, do some work with you guys, sometime?" Carl looked between Ellie and Laney nervously.

Ellie raised an eyebrow at Laney. "We'd love to have you working with us, Carl, but I guess what's going on in Michigan is going to take precedence for a while?"

Laney shook her head. "We'll see how many teams we can get together, if we've got enough to deal with the problems, I have no issue with it."

"Great, thanks, uh … thank you," Carl gripped Ellie's hand between his own and shook it enthusiastically. "Do you, uh, know when Adam gets back?"

"In a couple of weeks, I think," she said, nodding down at the car. "Frank spoke to Dwight last night, so you could check with him."

Emma walked slowly up to her, face expressionless. Ellie looked down at the tan, long-fingered hand she held out, glancing back at the tall woman's face as she took it. For a second, the fingers bit into hers, then released, the odd gesture a warning, possibly. Or just a reaction. Ellie wasn't sure which.

"I'm not really one for hypocritical small talk," Emma said quietly. "It was interesting to meet you, but I hope we don't cross paths again soon."

Ellie smiled. "My sentiments as well."

She turned and watched her go down the steps, walking around the car to avoid Dean and Frank as both men raised their heads to watch her go by, neither smiling. Laney's mouth twisted.

"Well, that wasn't as bad as I expected," she said dryly. Ellie glanced at her.

"She hasn't forgiven or forgotten, and she probably won't." She followed the woman up the driveway with her gaze. "I still don't have the foggiest idea of why she felt so threatened to begin with."

Laney glanced at her. "Hon, if you don't know that, then me explaining it isn't going to help."

Ellie looked at her curiously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have what she thinks she wants," the blonde woman said patiently.

"Dean?" Ellie glanced at the truck.

"Not just Dean, but yeah, he's a part of it. Your rep is just as formidable as his, you know, in certain hunting circles." Laney smiled.

"Then it would probably be better if there was no reason for us to have to work together."

Laney nodded. "Yeah, I get that."

She turned to the house and hollered through the doorway, "Come on you two, get your asses moving, we're leaving!"

Shrieks and thundering steps sounded from upstairs as the girls ran down, closely followed by John and Rosie.

"Can't we stay a bit longer, Mom?" Sara's hand held John's tightly. "We're having fun!"

"Please Mommy?" Leah added her plea to her sister's, holding Rosie's hand just as firmly.

"Nope. We gotta get going," Laney said heartlessly, winking at Ellie. "Say your goodbyes and jump in the truck, I want to make Idaho by dark."

Ellie crouched down and gave the girls a hug, picking up Rosie as tears filled the little girl's eyes, watching her new friends head down the steps.

"If you need a safe place for them, anytime …" Ellie looked Laney, who nodded.

"I know, hon. You take care of yourself and yours," she said, hugging John and kissing Rosie on the cheek. "And keep me up to date with what's happening. And call me when you know if it's a boy or a girl!"

She turned and walked down the steps, hugging Sam and Dean when she reached the truck. The three men moved back slightly as Greg started the engine and the truck pulled out, turning onto the road.

"Let's go make a big chocolate cake," Ellie said to Rosie, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"'Kay."

"Can I lick the bowl, Mom?" John turned with her, the thought of cake wiping the loss of his friends instantly.

"Sure can."

* * *

"Quite a weekend," Ellie said, leaning on the porch rail.

The night air was still and quiet, the skies clear, filled with stars. Dean walked up behind her, slipping his arms around her and looking out over her head, across the valley. The peace was welcome after the noise and socialising of the last two days.

"Yeah, that's an understatement." He bent a little, his cheek lying alongside hers. "I'm really happy about the baby, Ellie."

He felt her cheek lift slightly against his. "Not really the best timing."

"When would it ever be?" He laughed softly. "We've managed before with crappy timing."

"That's true."

His arms closed around her a little more tightly. "How are you feeling about it?"

She tilted her head so that it rested against his shoulder. "I'm good, I think." Her hand slid down her stomach. "I know we're really in a pretty smooth routine at the moment, but I think it'll all adjust okay."

"You know you're off the active roster, right? I'm not going to get any arguments about it?"

"Well, in two or three months, sure," she said slowly. "But not yet."

He exhaled gustily against her neck. "Two more months – that's it."

"Deal." She turned to face him. "What do you think about your new relatives?"

"They're not family. They're strangers right now." He shrugged, and looked back down at her. "I guess we'll see."

Ellie nodded. Family wasn't blood. Family had to be earned in Dean's eyes. He'd been betrayed by his blood before, and it had hurt him in a way that he couldn't express, couldn't get over, really. She thought that Carl would become family. He was a straight-shooter, guileless and simple. Charlie ... she couldn't decide. There hadn't much time to talk to the young woman, but she'd gotten the strong impression that Charlie was mainly into looking out for Charlie. That wouldn't fly with Dean, or Sam.

"Carl asked if he could come back out, stay with us for awhile, work, get to know you and Sam, and Adam."

He nodded. "That's okay with me. He seemed like a nice kid. If he comes back in a couple of months, he can back me up."

She smiled. "So long as Sam's with you too, I have no objections to that. I've just noticed something."

"What?"

"You can't help it, can you? You're just irresistible."

He snorted disbelievingly, but his eyes lit up. "That's a quote, but I can't remember from what."

"_Maverick_. Doesn't matter. It's still completely true." She grinned, winding her arms around his neck. "Take me bed or lose me forever."

"Okay, that one I do know." He bent a little, sliding an arm behind her legs and picking her up. "But you know, there's no way I'm singing the song."

* * *

**END**


	10. Chapter 10 Wayfarer

**Chapter 10 Wayfarer**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Dean opened his eyes, then closed them again, a flush of heat running through his nervous system as hands ran down his back, curling around his sides, sliding over the sensitive skin of his stomach and down to his thighs. He shivered, and rolled over, looking at Ellie.

"Are you, uh, objectifying me?"

She looked at him for a moment, considering. "Probably. Is that a problem?"

Her fingers curled around him, stroking him, slipping between his legs. He groaned, back tightening as the sensations spread through him, generating a white heat that was building far too quickly.

"No … uh, no …" He caught her hands and held them, rolling onto her and looking through half-closed eyes at her face, catching his breath. "No … problem …" He dipped his head, his mouth trailing up her neck, sending a cascade of tremors through both of them. "But … we're not … in a … rush … are we?"

Ellie arched under him. It was a side-effect of the middle trimester of pregnancy, the raging hormones in her body. Nature, having achieved her goal, rewarding in her own way, but all that intellectual knowledge, of the how and the why didn't stop the intense ache in her body, didn't temper the irresistible yearning, the insatiable itch, the oh-my-god-I-need-you-now ravenous hunger she could feel, making her buck and squirm as he took his time, holding her pinned beneath him.

Dean knew about the ache. Carrying Rosie, Ellie had told him how it had felt, a demand in her body for him, skin flushed and tingling, the impossibility of relief without feeling him inside of her. It wasn't torture, he told himself, his tongue moving slowly around her breast, hearing her little hitching moans, feeling the involuntary shudders running through her, his hand sliding down her body, stroking her thighs, it was payback … for all the times she'd set him on fire, all the times she'd turned him inside-out, all the times she'd driven him out of his mind.

She was super-heated and slick as he rubbed his hand over her, looking up at her face when his fingers pushed through the swollen folds, into that molten heat. Her back arched high, hips thrusting against them, and he felt a huge throb in himself, watching her face screw up, her lips part. This was the problem, the more he turned her on, the closer he brought her, the harder it was to keep any semblance of control himself. He ducked his head, trying to narrow his focus to her breast, to the taste and feel of the nipple in his mouth, but he could feel her tightening around his fingers, the muscles rippling and bulging, hear her struggling for air, breathing ragged, interspersed with low keening noises that were – _again_ – everting him, his heart pounding hard against the base of his throat.

She'd taught him to separate feeling from thought, to separate mind from body, for hunting, for working together, to keep his mind clear. It worked – when they were working … sometimes, most of the time – but not here, not now, not when they were making love and he watched her struggle against his hold, her body actually writhing under him, hot and sweet and begging him. He couldn't hold out against that.

He sucked in a deep breath. Driving into her, the aftershocks coruscating around him, heat and pressure and a silken softness that enclosed him like living velvet. His senses swamped in intense pleasure, his nerves frying with fervid sensation. There was no point even trying to pretend to himself that he was going to be able to hold out because it was too fucking much already. He tried to go slow; head bowed against her shoulder, fists curled tight into the soft cotton sheets either side of her, balls so tight and full that every time they touched her if felt as if they were being squeezed. Thought, coherent or otherwise, had fled. He was pushing into her faster, harder, so deep that he couldn't even take a breath; unable to slow, her hips bucking wildly against him until he felt every part of him contract and turn, for a microsecond, to stainless steel. Then she was pulsing around him and he was free-falling, mind, heart, soul, body joined together, oblivious to anything else, to everything else but the pleasure that pumped through him.

He felt his heart rate slowing, a heaviness deep in his muscles as the blood slowly began to circulate again. This time, the tremors and shivers and shudders, the aftershocks, had taken a long time to stop coming. He lifted his head slightly, looking at Ellie's face. Her eyes were closed, the lashes trembling very slightly against her cheeks, her mouth was parted, lips full and plump and swollen from the kisses he couldn't even remember giving her.

"You know, sooner or later … I'm gonna have a heart attack," he said, shifting his weight to one elbow.

Her eyes opened a little, pupils huge, as she looked at him. "Nah … that's why we keep up our training, so you have the stamina for this."

He snorted softly, head dropping against his shoulder. "Oh … I thought that was so we wouldn't die when we're on a hunt."

She shook her head fractionally, eyes dropping closed again. "Hunting's much easier."

"Are you falling asleep?" He lifted his head. "You wake me out of a perfectly good dream, force me into mindblowing sex, and now you're actually going back to sleep?"

"Uh huh…" She opened one eye reluctantly. "Um … could you …?"

He smiled, easing off her and leaning forward to kiss her. "Yeah."

* * *

Dean looked around the kitchen, wondering what they needed in addition to milk and bread. He saw the parcel post note from the post office and slipped it free of the magnet holding it to the fridge, shoving it into his pocket. He could swing by the post office on the way home.

"Where's Mom?" John looked up from his cereal, a droplet of milk trailing down his chin.

"She's sleeping, kiddo," he said distractedly. "I gotta go into town, get some groceries and stuff. You two coming along?"

"Yeah." John slid off his chair, carrying his bowl to the sink. Rosie looked up.

"S'cream?"

Dean glanced at the clock, smiling wryly. "Sure, eight-thirty in the morning, why not? Don't tell Mom."

They shook their heads in understanding unison and grinned at him.

"Get dressed; we're going in five minutes."

* * *

He drove automatically, his body and the car connected so deeply, with such familiarity that aside for checking for other traffic, he didn't have to think about what he was doing, and his thoughts were revolving around the somewhat surprising realisation he'd had earlier that in mid-October it would be their sixth anniversary.

It wasn't like he'd forgotten everything that had happened in the last six years – or that he could – but they'd gone by so goddamned quickly. He glanced in the mirror. John at school, starting first grade in another month. Rosie starting kindergarten next year in the fall. How'd that happened so fast?

It'd only been the last four years that they'd been really settled. Living as normal a life as was possible considering what they did, who they were, what was generally after them. He'd been doubtful it would work, this normal life, thinking of the year in Cicero. But it had worked amazingly well. Their little community had grown and changed over those years, but not a lot. With Frank's help, they'd re-established contact and communication with a few other groups around the country, enough to handle what they found, at least until this year. And he and Sam had found a balance between what they had to do, and what they needed for themselves. Finally.

A lot of time was spent in research, or back up, or finding things they needed. Hunting was divided up between the hunters. It seemed to be working out okay. He'd done jobs with Ellie, Sam, Twist and Garth since they'd gotten back from Rome. He'd hunted with Dwight, and with Katherine before that, and he knew he could trust any one of them at any time. They had each other's backs and there were no fights, no egos … just professionals doing their jobs. It had been … easy. Sometimes, not too often, but sometimes, it had even been fun.

He knew how it felt to come home after a job, walk in the door, grab a beer and try to talk the people he was living with. Most of the time, it had been okay, not hard, not uncomfortable, just … not much else. That'd surprised him at the time. It had made him think about what it was about family and normal life that he wanted so much. He hadn't really known the answer back then. Hadn't known exactly what it was that was missing.

Last night, he'd come home after spending most of the day with Dwight and Frank trying to figure out the pattern from the satellite photos Frank had extracted from various databases, and John and Rosie had raced down the stairs yelling for him to pick them up, to play a game, to tickle them. Ellie had come out of the kitchen, and had leaned against the doorway, her face lit up with laughter as she'd watched them together, a cold beer dangling from her hand for him when he'd manage to satisfy the kids' demands for long enough, a kiss that reached right through him when he bent to take it from her.

Dinner, all together, and teaching John to how to fold a paper plane that would outfly his Uncle Sammy's, listening to Ellie reading to Rosie, her voice rising and falling as she brought the characters to life. Baths and pajamas, brushing teeth and bedtime stories, wet goodnight kisses and small hands curled inside of his.

Stretching out on the sofa, talking about the good, the bad and the mediocre events of their days, catching the last half of _Men In Black_, and feeling … feeling so normal it was kind of weird. Normal weird. Weird normal. Their kind of normal anyway. Relaxed. Peaceful. Contented enough to have started purring, if he'd been that way inclined. They'd watched the movie, and loaded the dishwasher, checked the protection on the house and gone upstairs, and it had hit him that what had been missing in Indiana had been companionship. Honesty. Being able to be himself, no need to lie, no need to hide, not with Ellie, not in this community, not in this life.

"S'cream, Daddy!" Rosie was pressed against the window as they drove past the drug store. "S'cream! S'cream!"

"Okay, sweetheart, we're stopping." He saw a parking slot to the left of the store and slipped the black car into it.

He followed them into the store, picking up Rosie up so that she could see the big buckets of flavoured ice-creams under the glass counter, and bought them each a cone. It was already hot and he didn't feel that guilty about the treat, but there was no real need to tell Ellie about it, either.

* * *

The grocery store was almost empty, too early and too hot for most of the regular shoppers, and they walked slowly down the aisles, Rosie sitting the cart and John weaving from side to side looking at the items on the shelves.

"What kind of spaghetti does Mom get?" Dean asked him, frowning at the choice presented in front of him.

"The yellow pack," John answered, staring at the packs of dinosaur-shaped pasta. "Can we get these too, Dad?"

Dean glanced down at them and shrugged. "Sure."

The fresh food section was just before the checkouts and he looked over the fruit and vegetables. "Does Mom get this stuff from here, John?" He looked around for his son.

"No. From the other store, down the street," John said, holding up a watermelon. "Can we get this?"

He looked at the melon. Chances were it was neither biodynamic nor organic, he thought dryly. It would be cool and refreshing in the afternoon heat though. "Yeah, put it in."

The cart had seemed fine when it was just holding Rosie, but as more and more weight went into it, it started to show its inherent problems. By the time he'd managed to push it sideways to the checkout, he was started to sweat. _How did you pick a good cart from the lemons_, he wondered vaguely.

"That'll be one hundred and twenty-eight dollars, sir," the girl on the checkout said, smiling at Rosie. "Cute kid."

"Yeah, thanks." Dean handed over the cash and fought with the cart to clear of the narrow aisle. "John, stay close."

He unloaded the groceries into the trunk and John pushed the cart back into the store easily and they walked down the street to the whole-food store, picking up a couple of sacks of fresh fruit and vegetables, eggs and a couple of gallons of milk.

"Okay," Dean said, looking at his watch as he buckled Rosie back into the car seat. "Just the post office and we can go home."

"What's at the post office?" John asked, giving Rosie a handful of cold grapes from the paper bag.

"Just a package I need to pick up." He glanced back at them. "You guys can wait here; I won't be long, okay?"

"Yep." John pulled another handful from the bag for himself.

Dean drove down until he could make a left and turned the car around, heading back out on the main street. The post office was the second last corner before they left the town and he found a parking space right outside.

Inside, the clerk took his note, and disappeared into the back of the office, returning a minute later with a box wrapped in plain brown paper, and addressed to him. He thanked her, and walked back out to the car, frowning as he read the address. It had been handwritten, in a thick, black marker, no return address anywhere on the package and the postage mark showed Sioux Falls as the address of origin – or at least, where it'd been posted from.

He put it on the seat beside him and started the car, heading back out of town for home.

* * *

"There's Aunty Trish." John leaned forward, across the back of the front seat.

Dean slowed down as they came up to the driveway, rolling down the window.

"Glad I caught you. I thought I'd take the kids down to the pool this morning – do you guys want to come?"

Dean glanced up the road toward their house. "Ellie was sleeping when I left …"

"I can take the kids with us, it's no problem, Dean," Trish said, looking into the back seat. "You two want to go swimming today with us?"

"Yes, please!" John looked at his father. "Can we, please, Dad, can we go, it's so hot!"

"Swim!" Rosie crowed behind him. Dean shrugged.

"Yeah, it's okay with me," He looked back over his shoulder. "What about swimwear?"

"Rosie can wear Laura's old ones, and Marc has a few spares that'll fit John." Trish opened the back door, and unbuckled Rosie. "I like to get them down there and back before lunch, gets all the excess energy out and it's not so hot in the morning."

"Thought cooling off was the main idea?" Dean looked at her quizzically.

"Not when you're talking about sun-block, t-shirts, umbrellas and the rest of the stuff you need to stay through the day," she said, grimacing. "I'll bring them home by twelve, okay?"

"We'll probably come down soon as well, but thanks, Trish," he said, watching them walk back to Sam's house, John racing up the driveway and Rosie struggling in Trish's arms to be allowed to follow her brother at the same breakneck speed.

Putting the car in gear, he continued up the road, and pulled into the drive, parking in front of the house.

He unloaded the groceries, setting the bags on the kitchen counter and bench top, and dropping the package on the table. It was barely past nine-thirty and he couldn't hear a sound in the house, a reliable sign that Ellie was still crashed out.

He unpacked the groceries, and made a fresh pot of coffee, then picked up the package, tearing the paper wrapping off the cardboard box. There wasn't anything special about the box itself. He picked up a knife from the chopping board, and slid the blade under the tape holding the lid down, flipping it off. Inside, thin, coloured tissue paper hid the contents. He pulled it aside and found himself looking at a bracelet, thick and heavy, crusted with roughly cut gems. Under it, he could see a note, the same thick black handwriting as the address on the wrapping. He reached in, and lifted the bracelet.

* * *

_**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

Dean leaned against the column in Bobby's basement, watching as Bobby dropped the match into the bowl on the desk. Something about it was bothering him, but he couldn't get it, couldn't make it come clear. The contents of the bowl burst into flame and Crowley appeared, a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, staring around the room, then looking down at the devil's trap he was trapped in.

"No. No! NO! Come on!" Crowley said furiously, turning and looking from Bobby to Dean.

"Don't act so surprised," Bobby said dryly, walking around the desk and settling back against it, arms crossed.

"My new boss is going to kill for even talking to you lads," Crowley said, his expression tight as he looked at them.

Dean cut him off, "Well, you're lucky we're not stabbing you in your scuzzy face, you little piece of –"

From the chair in the corner of the basement, Sam overrode him, "Whoa, wait! What new boss?"

"Castiel, you giraffe."

"Is your boss?" Bobby looked at him, his disbelief lacing the words.

Crowley cut him off sharply, feeling sweat crawling down his neck at the position he found himself in. "Is everybody's boss. What do you think he's going to do if he finds out we've been conspiring?" He looked at them. "You do you want to conspire, don't you?"

"No. We want you to just stand there and look pretty," Bobby said sarcastically. Crowley shrugged.

"Listening."

"We need a spell … to bind Death," Dean said slowly.

"Bind?" Crowley's brows shot up. "Enslave Death? You having a laugh?"

"Lucifer did it."

"That's Lucifer." Crowley pointed out, looking as if he was wondering what the hell the three of them had been drinking.

"A spell's a spell," Sam cut in, his shoulder lifting in a slight shrug.

Crowley turned from Dean to look at him. "You _really_ believe you can handle that kind of horsepower? You're delusional!"

Dean raised his voice a little, overriding the demon's words. "Death is the only player on the board left, that has the kind of juice to take Cas."

"They'll both mash us like peas," Crowley said slowly and clearly. "Why should I help with a suicide mission?"

Bobby straightened up, and walked toward Crowley. "Look, do you really want Cas running the universe?"

The demon, lately puppet King of Hell, looked down at his bottle and poured himself another drink.

"What makes you think I can find it, anyway?"

Bobby gave him a humourless smile. "Because that's the kind of scumbag you are, Crowley. A spell like that … lying around in Hell. You can find it."

Dean looked at him, turning back to look at Crowley. Something was missing. This wasn't … he didn't know exactly what was wrong, but it didn't feel right.

"We need that spell, Crowley," he said, seeing the demon look at him curiously. "And you need us to do it."

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Ellie stretched out, eyes still closed, feeling the looseness of her muscles and smiling a little at the memory that was attached to that. She turned her head and looked at the clock on the nightstand, eyes widening as she saw the time. Ten o'clock. Some damned sleep-in.

She threw the covers back and swung her legs out, walking to the bathroom and running a shower. The hot water stung her skin as she washed quickly, sluicing the last of his scent from her skin and hair. She turned the taps to cold, standing under the freezing fall for a minute then turned off the taps, grabbing a towel from the rail and drying herself, fully awake.

The air in the bedroom was warm, and the windows were open, letting in more of the late summer heat. She let the venetians down, angling the blinds to block the sun as it rose higher, but left the windows open. There could be a breeze later on.

In soft, old jeans and a singlet, she walked downstairs, bare feet soundless along the hardwood floors and over the thick rugs, listening for Dean or John or Rosie. He said he'd do the run into town, she thought, a vague memory of the conversation filtering back. Perhaps they were still out.

When she came into the kitchen, it took a second to register the sight of him, lying on the floor next to the table, crumpled awkwardly. She was across the room, kneeling beside him, fingers against the side of his neck, relief flooding her as she felt the strong, steady pulse, before she'd realised she'd moved.

He was breathing easily. She lifted an eyelid with her thumb, frowning as she saw the pupil contracting and expanding slightly, as if the light were changing around him. His eye was clear, but moving. She glanced at the other one, moving as well under the closed lid. Hallucination? Dreaming?

Sitting back on her heels, she looked down at him. She could take him down to the ER in Bend, get him checked out but it might not be their kind of thing. Her head snapped up as she realised that the house was still silent.

_John_.

_Rosie_.

She shot to her feet and started looking around, moving fast out of the kitchen and through the rest of the house, running by the time she hit the back porch to look out over the garden which was as empty and quiet as the house. Inside, she could hear the shrill ring of the phone and she turned, slamming through the French doors to pick up the handset in the kitchen.

"Hello?"

"Ellie? Hey, it's Sam."

"Sam, Dean's unconscious and I can't find the kids," the words came out like bullets, and she realised abruptly she was close to screaming, her fear close and hot.

"What? Ellie, the kids are with Trish, I'll be there in a minute, alright?"

"With Trish?" Her lungs started to move again.

"Yeah, Dean dropped them off here and Trish took them all to the pool, it's okay, they're safe," he said, swearing inwardly as he belated recognised her near-panic. "They're safe. I'll be there in a minute."

Ellie put the handset down as he hung up, setting it on the table and pulling in a deep breath. Safe. John and Rosie were safe. That was good. She looked down at Dean. Not safe, not fine, not good.

The box on the table caught her eye as she turned to kneel beside him again, and she looked into it, seeing a chunky metal bracelet, sitting slightly tilted in a nest of tissue paper. She looked from the box to Dean and closed her eyes, feeling the fear come back, the taste of it at the back of her throat as bitter as battery acid, and she leaned against the table.

* * *

_**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

"Well, at least he's not curled up under the sink." Bobby looked up at Dean who was leaning on the table in the kitchen, watching Sam broodingly.

Dean glanced at him and back to Sam, sitting in the other room. "Yeah, no, he's just sitting there silently field-stripping his weapon."

He took Sam's phone out of his brother's jacket, hung from the back of the kitchen chair. Bobby stretched and yawned, stopping halfway through as he watched him.

"What are you doing?"

"Turning on his GPS, case he decides to fly the cuckoo's nest." He slipped the phone back into the pocket, glancing again into the living room where Sam was still assembling and disassembling the Taurus.

Bobby got up from the chair and walked to the sink. "And you?" He turned, stretching his back and leaning back against it, his face shadowed. "How are you doing?"

"Seriously Bobby, it ain't like he's hexed, you know? I mean, what if it's the kind of crazy you can't fix?" Dean's brows drew together as the worry rose over the wall again.

"Yeah, I'm-I'm worried too, but humour me for a second. How are you?"

"Who cares?" He looked at Bobby in frustration. "Don't you think our mailbox is a little full right now? I'm fine."

He walked to the counter and Bobby moved aside, as Dean reached for the almost-empty coffee pot.

Bobby inclined his head slightly. "Right. And weren't you pissed at him when he said the same thing just a couple hours before he spilled his marbles all over the floor?"

"Yeah, well." He poured himself a coffee from the pot. "I'm not Sam, okay? I keep my marbles in a lead friggin' box." He turned around, standing beside the older man and looking back at Sam. "I'm fine. Really."

"Of course. Yeah." Bobby sighed. "You just lost one of the best friends you ever had, your brother's in the bell jar, and Purgatory's most wanted are surfing the sewer lines, but yeah, yeah, I get it." He looked at him, mouth twisting slightly. "You're ... you're fine."

"Good." Dean lifted a brow and smiled sourly, walking back to the table and sitting down in front of the laptop.

"Course, if at any time you want to decide that's utter horse crap, well I'll be where I always am. Right here," Bobby said, looking at him. Bobby's own brand of pointed sarcasm, thinly veiling the offer of help.

"What, you want to do couples' yoga, or you want to get back to hunting the big bads?" Dean asked shortly, turning his head slightly. He couldn't deal with Sam's problems, the world's problems and his own problems all at the same time. Something had to go on the back-burner and there were no prizes for guessing which that would be. Bobby knew that, he didn't know why they had to go through this conversation or one very much like it every single goddamned time.

"Shut up." He stared at the back of the younger man's head. "Idjit."

_Yeah, probably_, Dean thought as he pulled out his phone, bringing up the list of numbers in it and scrolling slowly down through them. He didn't know who he was looking for, only that in there somewhere there was someone he did want to talk to, someone who could help him. But he couldn't find the number.

He wasn't fine. He was such a long way from fine he couldn't even see it from here. He couldn't unload on Bobby, not in the middle of trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. He sure as hell couldn't unload on Sam, who was hanging onto reality by the ends of his fingernails. His chest was aching and his head pounding from keeping all this shit down under the fortifications in his mind, and he desperately wanted, _needed_ some help. But there was no one who could help him.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Sam looked at the bracelet in the box and let out his breath. "Cursed object."

Ellie nodded. "I don't know if we should take him to the ER or not. I don't think he's had a stroke or an aneurysm or any kind of damage. I think he's just not here."

Sam frowned as he knelt beside her, beside his brother. "A hallucination?"

"A powerful one." She rubbed the heel of her hand over her forehead. "I don't know what he's seeing, but he's seeing something, Sam, seeing it for real, in his head."

"You call Frank?"

She nodded. "I took a photo of that thing, and sent it to him straight away. He's looking."

He straightened up, looking at the bracelet, the tissue paper surrounding it. "Ellie, there's a note in here."

She looked up, her breath sucking in audibly. "Don't touch it."

"No. Have you got anything I can get it out with?" He looked around the kitchen.

"Tongs, in the third drawer to your right," she said. "Don't touch anything inside that box with your skin."

"No." Sam pulled out the tongs and pushed the bracelet aside, scrunching the tissue paper to the other side. The note was visible and he lifted it out of the box, setting it onto a paper serviette that Ellie laid on the table.

_Dean,_

_Something I picked up in Gaza and thought you'd like_

The rest of the note's contents were folded underneath. Sam looked in the drawer and pulled out a second pair of tongs, holding the edge of the note with one pair as he unfolded it with the other.

_to see it for yourself. A whole new reality waiting for you._

It was unsigned. Sam bent and peered at the handwriting, but he didn't recognise it.

Ellie had dialled Frank. "Frank? It's Egyptian … possibly. Start there. No, he hasn't changed … I know."

She looked at Sam. "Any other ideas?"

He shook his head. "We better get him upstairs before the kids get back. Bedroom okay?"

She nodded. "If you can take his shoulders, I'll get his feet."

* * *

_**Spokane, Washington**_

The woman came through the motel door and Dean leaned back on the sofa, watching her catch sight of him in the mirror, watching her slowly turn to face him.

"Next time you run, you should change your license plates. Keeping the same tags makes you easy to track," he said, not knowing why he was offering the advice, given that he was here to kill her. Put her off her guard? He didn't know.

"Who are –"

He cut her off, getting up and walking toward her. "I'm Sam's brother. And you are Amy Pond, the Bozeman mortician who went missing. There's people looking for you."

She backed as he got closer. "Sam sent you?"

He stopped, looking at her. "Sam doesn't know I'm here."

"But he told you. My son –"

"I know." He didn't want to talk about it with her. Not really. Not about a child who would be motherless, not about how she felt. "I know. But people ... they are who they are. No matter how hard you try, you are what you are. You will kill again."

"I won't. I swear," Amy said, her eyes widening fractionally as they met his. He didn't know what she saw in them. It might have been emptiness. He didn't feel anything. Just the imperative thought that she was a monster. And the sure knowledge of what he had to do about that.

He took a step toward her and she didn't move. "Trust me, I'm an expert. Maybe in a year, maybe ten. But eventually, the other shoe will drop. It always does." He slid the knife in, angled upward under the sternum and into her heart. He held her gaze with his own, seeing the pupils turning to slits, the surprise in her eyes as the pain hit, and then the icy numbness.

"I'm sorry." The words came out harder than he thought he would. Perhaps because he wasn't. A part of him wasn't. She was a monster and she would kill again. He was pretty sure she would.

She looked down at the knife's hilt and back up, her eyes becoming unfocussed, swaying as the blood stopped pumping, all her strength gone, her life slipping away. Dean reached out and caught her arms, laying her back onto the bed gently. It had probably been the easiest kill of his life, she hadn't fought back, hadn't fought at all, hadn't expected it. He pulled the knife from the wound, looking down at her. It would be harder to tell Sam, he thought bleakly.

As he turned for the door he saw the boy, standing there against the light, face pinched with disbelief, with pain. Dean shoved down his instinctive reaction, his voice gruff with the effort. "You got someone you can go to?"

The boy nodded, the movement slight. Dean forced himself to look on the child as a monster. Not to see the _boy_. To see what he would become. To see something that he wouldn't feel guilty over making an orphan.

"You ever kill anyone?" he growled out the question, squashing the flutter of doubt – _not doubt, never doubt_.

The boy shook his head, his eyes fixed on Dean's face.

"Well, if you do, I'll come back for you." It was supposed to have come out a warning. Just a warning. It didn't sound like a warning. It sounded like a threat, like a promise.

"The only person I'm gonna kill is you," the boy said with cold certainty.

The certainty shook him. The kid was … what … ten? Eleven, maybe? He shook off the feeling in his gut, the feeling that he might deserve to die at the hands of the child standing in front of him.

"Well, look me up in a few years." He tried to lighten his tone, but it sounded like bravado, even to his ears. "Assuming I live that long."

That part was true, at least, he thought, lifting his hands and skirting the boy as he ran past him to his mother. What the fuck was wrong with him? He killed monsters. That was what he did. That was _all_ he fucking did. Why did this whole thing feel so fucking off?

He stopped at the door, looking back. The kid was on the bed beside his mother. His dead mother. Another kid without a mother. That bit deeply, more deeply than he'd realised it would. _Had it been the right thing to do? What if Sam had been right, what if she could have controlled it? What if fucking pigs had fucking wings and could fly him the fuck out of here_, he snarled at himself. _It was too fucking late now. Right or wrong it was done_.

He turned away, and walked down the narrow path to the car, feeling the tension building in him. He didn't want to think about right and wrong. _She was a monster. She would've killed again. The other shoe always drops. It always does. It had with Sam_ … he stopped, leaning against the wall for a moment, his heart rate suddenly accelerating. Sam wasn't going to understand this.

_I don't tell Sam. He won't find out_. The thought brought a shuddering heave to his stomach. Lying to his brother now. Another secret between them. _Perfect. Just fucking perfect_.

He straightened up, going straight to the trunk, and wiping the blade clean, replacing it in the graphite sheath under the false lid. He looked down at his hands as he dropped the lid over the well. They were shaking. He wanted a drink. Maybe two or three.

He was holding too much inside, and he knew it. He didn't know how the fuck he was going to be able to keep it together when the hits were coming so fast and so hard. He clenched his hands into fists, lifting his head and pulling in a deep breath. _Stop it_, he told himself. _Worry about Sam. Just Sam. Everything else can wait its turn_.

He wanted to look at his phone again, but there was nothing there, no one who could help. He didn't know why the fucking compulsion to keep checking it was so strong. There'd never been anyone he could talk to … unload to … feel safe with. Just Sam, and Bobby, and they were both strung out with their own shit anyway, they didn't need his.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

They both heard the sound of the van coming down the drive, the crunch of the gravel under tyres as it turned around and pulled up in front of the house. Ellie looked at Sam.

"I'll stay with him," Sam said softly. "Tell Trish I'll be home in a bit. I'll go and see Frank first."

She nodded, and walked of the room, hurrying down the stairs. John was walking up the porch steps, Trish behind him with Rosie in her arms as she opened the front door. Trish looked over Rosie's head with worried eyes.

"What's happening?"

Ellie took her daughter, smiling at the half-closed eyes. The smile disappeared as she looked back at Trish. "Sam's upstairs with him, he'll go and check with Frank on his way home. There's no change. Unless we can break the curse – or the object – he's trapped, somewhere, we don't know where."

Tricia closed her eyes. "Ellie, do you want John and Rosie to stay with us until … until Dean's okay again?"

Ellie shook her head. "There's not much I can do right now, and looking after them, being with them …"

"Yeah, it will keep you busy." She nodded, understanding. "If you change your mind, or if you need to do anything, just call, okay?"

She looked down at Ellie, freezing as she saw the shimmer in her eyes. She'd never seen Ellie cry, no matter how bad things had gotten, never seen her shaken and helpless. It scared her more than the not knowing what was wrong with Dean. Scared because _Ellie_ didn't know, Ellie was _afraid_.

"We'll figure this out," she said softly, shoving the fear down and dredging up some kind of feeling that they would, that they had to. Ellie nodded, eyes cutting away.

"Thanks. Yeah, we will."

She closed the door behind Trish and heard the van pull out a moment later. A nap for Rosie, she thought, and something to eat for John.

She walked up the stairs slowly, going into her daughter's room and settling her into her bed. Rosie gave a deep sigh as she rolled onto her side, her eyes opening slightly as Ellie drew the curtains across the windows.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, baby?" Ellie walked back to the side of the bed, crouching down next to Rosie.

Rosie lifted her hand and touched Ellie's cheek very lightly. "You sad?"

"A little bit, Rosie," Ellie said gently, tucking Rosie's hand beneath the covers again. "I'll be better soon."

"I t-t-tied."

"I can see that. How about a little nap, till you feel awake again?" She leaned forward and kissed Rosie's forehead, pushing the copper curls back.

Rosie nodded and yawned, closing her eyes again.

John was climbing the stairs as she came down.

"Mom, where's Dad?" He looked up at her.

"He's tired, hon, he's having a sleep," she took his hand as he turned to follow her downstairs. "What do you want for lunch?"

"Aunty Trish got us sandwiches. I'm full," he said. "Can I play the video game until Dad wakes up?"

Ellie sighed. "You can play for a while, baby."

He whooped and ran for the living room and Ellie turned around and went back up the stairs.

Sam looked up as she came into the bedroom. "Are you okay for a while?"

"Yeah, Rosie's sleeping and John'll stay hooked to the TV until I call him off." She smiled at him. "Tell Frank to call me as soon as he knows anything?"

"Of course." He stood up, looking down at his brother, then shifting his gaze to Ellie. "It's going to be okay."

She nodded. Everyone said that because they all had to. But the truth was that Dean could stay like this … for a long time, a long, long time. If they couldn't figure out what the key to unlocking the curse was, if they couldn't find a way to break it, he could lie there, perfectly healthy and completely unreachable, locked inside his head for the rest of his life.

"I'll be back in a while, okay?" Sam said, turning for the door. "Sooner if we get a break."

"Okay."

* * *

It was just after nine when she heard the knock at the front door.

The afternoon had passed in a series of jerky, uneven snapshots to her. Playing with John and Rosie, making them dinner, bathtime and the early evening had passed quickly, with time slowing down every time she'd checked on Dean, seeing him unchanged, his eyes still moving rapidly behind the lids, his pulse occasionally speeding up or slowing down. She still wasn't sure if it wouldn't be better to have him in a hospital, where if anything happened, they could hang onto him, keep him tethered to life. The stopper was that they probably wouldn't like it if a ritual had to be performed there.

She got up and opened the door, stepping aside as Frank came in, followed by Sam.

"What?" She looked at Frank, fighting down her reaction as she saw his face in the bright light of the hallway.

"You won't like it," he warned her.

She made an impatient noise in her throat, scowling at him. "I don't like any of this, Frank, spit it out."

"You're on the clock."

She closed her eyes. "How long?"

"When do you think he touched the object?" Frank opened the file he held.

Ellie looked at Sam.

"Uh, Trish said she saw him around nine thirty-five, and Ellie found him on the floor at ten fifteen."

"Then a little under thirteen hours." Frank looked up from the file. "If we haven't broken the curse by then, it won't matter what we do, he'll be trapped in whatever alternative reality he's in for good."

* * *

_**Dearborn, Michigan**_

Dean walked out of the hotel, reeling from Warren's admissions. This was … unbelievable.

"What is it?" Sam asked, walked behind him. He looked back at him, and turned around.

""What is it?" Sam, uh ... how about a drunk driver, Michael Vick, a murderer?" he said, frustration filling his voice.

"And?"

"And ... when did our black-and-white case turn to mud?" Dean shook his head. "I'm just saying I'm having a hard time not rooting for the ghosts on this one."

Sam shook his head. "No, you said it yourself – it's not on us to judge."

"Yeah," Dean said, then looked up at him. "Except that that's complete crap. Everybody judges all day long. Look, I'm just supposed to ignore what that guy did?

"We've shot people, Dean – more than two," Sam said bluntly, straightening up.

"Yeah, you know what? When those ghosts come to kick my ass, they've got a compelling case." He could see Sam was starting to gather his argument together and he felt his irritation rise. It wasn't Sam. It was the fucking shades of grey that had suddenly invaded his life. He didn't do grey well. He couldn't even _see_ grey half the fucking time.

"So, what, you're saying – what? You don't want to work the job anymore?" Sam asked. Dean heard the edge of frustration in his voice.

"I'm just saying, you know, one simple friggin' day on the job … is that too much to ask?" Dean looked away, he wasn't going to fucking quit the job. He just didn't want to have to think so goddamned hard about every decision he made, every single minute of the day.

"Well, look. I'm gonna go out, I'm gonna go try and find that barn. You coming?" Sam asked, his tone softer, conciliatory.

The idea of riding with Sam, hearing the reasoned, rational, logical arguments from his brother suddenly hit him. He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

"I'm gonna check the bar." Dean turned away, heading for Neal's.

"To work or drink?" Sam called tersely.

"I haven't decided." He gave his brother a humourless smile and turned away.

He couldn't look at his thoughts, couldn't look at his feelings. Hadn't been able to get that shit straight since Hell. There were too many mines in his mind, too many unexplored, unexploded bombs waiting for him there. It was just safer not to go prodding and poking around in there. Sam didn't get it. Didn't get any of it, despite the fact that he knew better than anyone else the toll that a tour in Hell took.

He missed Lisa and Ben. He hadn't been happy there, not really, not at all, most of the time, but he missed having someone hold him when the pain got really bad. He missed just being able to touch someone, even if he didn't say a word, even if he _couldn't_ say anything. It had given him a sense of being human, a sense of being … something. Well, that was a closed door now so there wasn't much point in thinking about it.

He hunched against the cool afternoon and kept walking, his feet seeming to know the way to the bar.

The last three years … he was overloaded, he could feel it, feel the bulge of his feelings pushing against his control. Bad decisions, scars that wouldn't heal, god, he had so much fucking scar tissue inside that it was amazing he could feel anything at all, but he did, he felt every mistake, the people he'd let down, every life that he'd taken, the ghosts of everyone he'd loved, had led to their deaths, or put into danger.

He stopped, his eyes screwed tightly shut, breath whistling out between his teeth as he fought against the monstrous wave of pain and guilt and shame that was breaking free.

"Hey, buddy, you alright?" The voice was behind him, to his left, and his fists closed, automatically, involuntarily.

"Yeah, dizzy. Need something to eat," he managed to get out, opening his eyes and looking behind him. The man standing there was an ordinary guy, Dean's flickered look took in the inexpensive clothes, wedding ring glinting gold on one hand, cheap watch, the concern in his face and eyes. He stretched his face into a smile – of sorts – nodding to the guy. "I'm fine."

_I'm fine. I'm fine. Really. Fine_. The thought looped insanely in his head and he watched the man walk away, unconvinced, glancing back over his shoulder. _Fine. Fine. Fine_.

The devil had risen because his brother had put his trust in a demon instead of in him. Hounded and hunted across the country, pursued by angels, hunting Horsemen, looking for any way to stop the end of the world. Losing Ellen. Losing Jo. Then losing Sam. The year with Lisa and Ben, unable to let them in, unable to give them what they wanted, but taking what he could get, knowing that his dream of living a normal life had been a pipedream because how could he ever be himself with them? Lies and nightmares, drinking to forget his brother, drinking to forget his dreams, drinking to block out the pain and torment of pretending every fucking minute that he wasn't who he was, because what he was … that wasn't good enough, not human enough, not normal enough.

He staggered to the building wall, and hunched into the doorway, his face turned into the shadows, muscles rigid with the effort of controlling the mess in his mind.

Last year's series of cluster fucks. Sam. Lisa. Ben. Hurting them and feeling that knife in his own gut, twisting endlessly. Betrayed by his own blood. Another knife point. Betrayed by his friend, his best friend. More than a knife, that one. Yanking the world clear of Eve but it hadn't helped. It was in danger again, this time from something they knew almost nothing of, something that they couldn't even find, let alone fight.

The scream that rose inside of him was more like a howl. He couldn't deal. He couldn't keep fighting when everything he did made it all worse. Made it all meaningless.

He wanted it to end. Just stop.

He wanted to die.

The thought, like a shout into a silent room, shocked him free of the maelstrom of emotion. Did he?

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Ellie sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers curled around Dean's hand, listening to Frank.

"What we're dealing with is Sekhmet. She had power over the usual stuff plus vengeance and enchantments. The armlet in that box is hers – not an offering, not a tribute, but personally hers."

"Cut to the chase, Frank." Sam looked down at his brother.

"To break the curse, we have to summon her, give her back the armlet, ask her for a favour in return. She's the only one who can break a spell made in her name."

"Fine," Ellie snapped, her voice like the crap of a whip. "What do we need to summon her?"

Frank glanced at Sam. "Uh, this is where it gets tricky."

"Frank," Ellie said softly. The two men looked at her face, seeing the icy rage that was just below the surface now.

"Sorry. We have most of what we need. What we don't have … I don't know if we can get them." He looked down at the list in his hands. "We need a paragon of the earth. The blood of a soul that straddles Earth and the Underworld –"

Ellie frowned. "How much blood?"

Frank looked at the spell. "Doesn't say."

She nodded. "What else?"

Sam looked down at her face, the crease that appeared when she was concentrating there now, deep between her brows, her gaze unfocussed as she listened intently to Frank. He could feel a change in the air of the room, like a build up of static almost, before an approaching storm. He'd felt it twice before, near her, when she was completely focussed on what she would have to do, admitting to no possibility of defeat.

"And, uh … the heart of a dead star."

Ellie snorted. "Come on, Frank, I know you've got that one in the trailer."

He frowned at her. "I've got some meteorite pieces, Ellie – not the heart of a dead star!"

"Ancient Egypt, Frank. A falling star is a dead star." She closed her eyes. "Paragon of the earth … a diamond."

Frank glanced at Sam. "Yeah, we figured that out, but even with your resources, I don't see how we can get one in time."

"Sam, can you please call Cas," Ellie said, opening her eyes. She looked back to Frank. "Which one is the easiest to get to?"

He watched Sam leave the room, shaking his head. "The Kremlin has the Orlov. And there are the Cullinan Diamonds, in the Tower of London. Ah … the Shah had a couple in the Iranian Crown jewels, but I don't know where they'd be now." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking. "There's the Kohinoor, that's in London somewhere too, probably the Tower. And the Hope –"

She shook her head. "The Hope isn't a paragon. The Cullinan, they're in the Queen's crown, aren't they?"

"Yeah, I think so. Uh, the Lesser Star is in the Crown. The Greater Star is in the King's Sceptre."

"We don't need the biggest." She looked around past Frank as Sam came back into the room, Castiel following him. The angel's vessel looked tired and unkempt.

"What's wrong with him?" Castiel looked down at Dean, then back to Ellie.

"He touched a cursed object. We need a few things to get him back." She stood up. "The Lesser Star of Africa is a cushion-cut clear diamond, set into band of the Crown of the Queen of England, held in the Tower of London."

The angel nodded abruptly. "Yes, I know of it."

"We need that stone for the spell." She looked up at him. "Can you get it?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes."

"Good. We also need to find Jesse Turner, any ideas?"

He frowned. "He's been hidden from us for years now. I thought he turned up when Dean needed him?"

"He might not know he needs him." Ellie rubbed her eyes. "Do you know of any summoning spells for half-breeds, Cas?"

He shook his head. "Their human heritage protects them against the demon summons, you know that."

She nodded, and Castiel disappeared, the flutter of wings soft in the silence of the room.

"Jesse?" Sam looked at her quizzically. Ellie shrugged.

"He is of the two planes," she said, sinking back onto the bed. "No use if we can't tell him we need him."

The doorbell rang and the three of them looked at the door. "I'll get it," Sam said and walked out.

"Frank, get the rest of the stuff, including your meteorites. And run a search on the library to see if anything comes up in relation to calling or summoning half-breeds?"

He nodded, leaving the file on the bed and hurrying out of the room. Ellie looked down at the man lying beside her. _We're looking, Dean_, _we're working on it_, she thought, resting her fingertips lightly against his cheek. _We'll get you home_.

* * *

_**Prosperity, Indiana**_

"We should hit the road. You ready?" Dean walked around to the driver's side of the Impala, looking over the roof at his brother. He wanted to go. He wanted to drive and not think and not feel and not stop until he got to Bobby's and dumped the monster.

Sam was looking at him expectantly, never a good a sign. "Hey, were you, um, were you listening to the Starks tonight?"

"Uh, a little, when I wasn't getting slammed into a wall or stung by bees," he said, hearing the opening but not sure where Sam was going with it.

"You notice how they, uh, you know, how they – how they opened up, got everything off their chest?" Sam looked away as he made an opening up gesture broadly over the roof of the car.

_Here we go_, Dean thought. He pasted a smile on his face, and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. Kudos on selling them that crap."

"It wasn't crap, Dean. It worked," Sam said, seeing the evasion for what it was.

"Sam, I am so very, very, very ... very ... very, very tired –" Dean exhaled, looking at Sam from under his brows. Why was it that his little brother always wanted to fix him when he had no energy, no will to argue back?

"Dean, like it or not, the stuff you don't talk about doesn't just go away. It builds up, like whatever's eating at you right now." Sam leaned on the roof, staring at him.

"There's always something eating at me. That's who I am," Dean snapped. He was so not going there, not tonight, not ever. "Something happens, I feel responsible, all right? The Lindbergh baby – that's on me. Unemployment – my bad."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Sam's forehead wrinkled up.

"Well, then what the hell are you talking about?"

_And why the fuck are you talking about it to me?_ He could feel his brother's concern, beating at him like a fucking stick. He couldn't do this. It was hard enough to have to keep this shit locked and bolted and chained and padlocked down in his head. He was fucking tired. Tired of the stray thoughts that escaped his best efforts. Tired of the fucking monsters that were roaming the world. Tired of being hammered by his brother when he needed rest, needed to shut down for an hour or twelve and not think, not feel, not be.

"I'm talking about whatever you're not telling me about," Sam said angrily, not knowing how to get through. He looked at him imploringly. "Look, Dean, it's fine. You can unload. That's kind of what I'm here for."

He stared back at his brother, across the roof of his car. The silence stretched out and Sam looked away, visibly trying to let go of his frustration. He looked back at Dean.

"I mean... we're good, right?"

"We're good," Dean agreed readily, opening the car door and sliding into the seat.

He turned on the engine, eyes closing as Sam continued to stand by the passenger door, no doubt wringing his hands and rolling his eyes. He just couldn't. He knew it was making Sam nuts, but there was just no way he could tell him about … everything. It would take too fucking long for one thing. They'd still be talking next year. And while it might … _might_ … release the pressure, it wouldn't change anything. Wouldn't make what had happened better or more understandable or different.

He heard the squeak of the door and opened his eyes, settling his hands on the shift and the wheel, waiting for the clunk of it closing. He could feel Sam's gaze on him, like a hot brand on the side of his head.

He'd wanted to die, in that room with Jo. That had scared him more than anything else he'd been through. He knew despair, knew it like an old, unwelcomed friend, who visited in the night and clung to him, taking the hope out of everything. This had been worse. This had been an avalanche of despair, a fucking iceberg of despair, ramming into him and sinking him. He hadn't even heard half of what Jo had said, in the moments before she'd gone to the stove and turned on the gas.

None of it was surprising. It had all been there, for a long time now. He'd thought he'd had a lot of it buried deep, locked down, but he'd been wrong. Like putrescent, bloated corpses, his memories, his thoughts and feelings were rising, surrounding him, making him choke and gag on their noxious fumes, drowning him. Sam was right, it built up, and up, and up, and there was nothing he could do about it, because he could _not_ talk about it. Not with his brother. Not with Bobby. He had no one.

What he'd done to the kitsune was one gag. But there were others, a lot of others. The trust that he'd had in his brother was a ragged remnant of what it once been, worn down and torn apart and rent through with everything that had happened, with all the secrets that were still between them, all the conversations they'd never had, all the truths that they'd never shared. Even the thought of Sam and Bobby deliberately leaving him in Cicero for almost a year, had broken some part inside of him that he couldn't find all the pieces for. He didn't understand how they could've not _known_ those things about him, not known that that year had been torture out of Hell for him, that he would've given anything to have known that Sam was alright, that the dreams that had ripped him apart for that endless time had been wrong, delusions, not real.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that they didn't know him, not really. Not where he lived and breathed. Maybe that was his fault, hiding himself too well. Or maybe no one had cared enough to push him into showing himself. He didn't know. He trusted Sam and Bobby with his life. Just not … with himself. He hadn't trusted Lisa with himself either; afraid of what she might think. Afraid of what she might do.

Once, he might've been able to trust Cas enough to talk to about some of this. Not any more. Not that he had the option anymore. He stared at the road, a black ribbon twisting away from them, leading them deeper into the dark. Trust was a precious commodity, and a rare one. He knew he didn't trust anymore. Couldn't anymore. And without it, he was going to have to deal with his demons on his own. His armour was weak, thinned out from too much use, too much need.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Ellie paced up and down the bedroom, the cell phone pressed tightly to her ear. In her mind, seconds ticked away steadily, and she couldn't shake the image of a death-watch, hearing the ticking getting louder the more she tried to force it away.

"Father? It's Ellie," she said, hearing the monk's voice on the other end of the line. She spun around and sat down in the armchair by the window. "I need some information and I need it really, really fast." She looked at Dean, unmoved on the bed. "Is there anything in the manuscripts in the vaults about summoning or calling a half-breed?"

"Demon/human, not nephilim," she clarified, trying to make out his words over the hiss and crackle of the phone. "Yeah, yes, I'll wait."

"Anything?" Sam looked at her questioningly.

"Not sure," she answered quietly, looking up at him. "He thinks there's something, he's gone to look."

"Lucky he's got that place sorted out."

She nodded, fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on the arm of the chair as she waited.

"We've got everything else, just waiting on Cas to get back," Sam continued, pulling the small table up next to the bed, and setting out a bowl and the herbs, powders and candles that the ritual required. "Can I draw the circle on the floor by the door?"

Ellie looked at him distractedly and nodded again, glancing at her watch. Ten and a half hours. Cas should've been back by now.

"Yeah – I'm here," she straightened in the chair. "What is it? Can you fax it? Now?"

She got up and strode past Sam, glancing at him as she passed. "He's got something; I'm going to the fax."

Sam nodded, his eyes fixed on the circle he was making on the floor in lamb's blood. He'd had to drive down to the butcher's and break in to get the blood, but there was enough to do the job properly.

Ellie took the stairs in two and three step jumps, her heart hammering. If she could get Jesse, then maybe they had a chance. She didn't want to think of the reactions of a six-thousand-year-old goddess to being summoned by a bunch of hunters.

In the area of the basement that held their network, servers and scanners and storage drives, a long beep sounded from the fax machine as the paper fed through. She grabbed the edge of it, tilting it up, seeing the ancient symbols covering the top edge of the sheet. _Persian?_ The sheet cleared the rollers and came away at her tug. Yep, she thought as she scanned through it. Nothing was needed but the incantation and a circle, which made a nice change.

Her phone rang, and she tucked the sheet under her arm as she answered it, heading for the stairs.

"Yeah?" She stopped in the middle of the room. "Cas? Where are you?"

"_Ah, I'm in the Tower of London. In an Enochian trap."_

"What?"

"_Yes. There's a man here who wants to speak to you." _

"'_Lo?"_ The voice was older, crisp and military-sounding. _"With whom am I speaking?"_

"Eleanor Winchester," Ellie said slowly.

"_Eleanor … Ellie?"_ The surprise was almost comical. Ellie blinked.

"Patrick?"

"_Bloody hell. Is this angel yours?"_

Ellie repressed a snort of laughter. "In a manner of speaking, what the hell are you doing there, Patrick?"

"_Queen's consult on all matters paranormal."_

"You're kidding."

"_Not kidding. Quite serious."_ She heard a rustle at the end of the line. _"One of my duties is to prevent the jewels being stolen by nefarious and unnatural means."_

Ellie grimaced. "I only need one, Patrick. It's a matter of life and death."

"_Ellie … how would it look if I let the bloody thing get nicked on my watch?"_

"How often are the stones authenticated?"

"_Only when there's a coronation,"_ Patrick said warily.

Ellie bit her lip. "Let me speak to Castiel."

"_Hello?"_

"Cas, there's a Brazilian white topaz, cushion-cut and the same size and weight as the Lesser Star, in the Diamond Museum in Amsterdam. I need you to get it."

"_Ellie, I'm in a trap. I can't move."_

"Put Patrick back on," she said.

"_I can't let the angel out, Ellie."_

"You certainly can't explain an angel to anyone in the Home Office who'll believe you, Patrick. If he can get a replacement, you can swap it out and no one will be the wiser until it's Charlie's turn," she pressed him urgently. "Patrick, please."

There was a scraping noise over the line and Ellie held her breath, listening.

"_All right, off you go then,"_ Patrick said indistinctly, possibly to the angel. His voice became clearer. _"You got it. But Ellie, this is a favour the like of which you've never seen – I expect to get your child in return if I ask for it, are we quite clear?"_

Relief flooded her. "Yes, we're clear."

"_That was bloody quick!"_

She heard him set the phone down, indecipherable noises and mutterings coming through in clumps, interspersed with silences.

"_Done. He's got it and he's gone."_

"Thank you."

"_Don't thank me,"_ Patrick said sourly. _"Remember it when I need something from you, girl."_

She laughed a little. "I will."

The sound of fluttering wings filled the basement and Ellie turned as she closed her phone, Castiel behind her.

"Who was that man?" He walked to her, dropping a diamond the size of a poker chip into her hand. Ellie looked at it and turned for the stairs, glancing back over her shoulder at him.

"Patrick Mahoney. He used to be a hunter, guess he's gone respectable."

"He knows an inordinate amount about angels," Cas grumbled as he followed her up the stairs.

She glanced back at him. "He used to work for the Vatican."

* * *

_**Saylorville Lake, Polk City, Iowa**_

Dean opened the trunk of the hatchback. He unzipped the bag, looking down at the two Leviathan heads wrapped in plastic, and exhaling softly. Taking them had been sweetly satisfying, blindingly black and white action in the grey sludge that had become his life.

"Are you sure you want to dump these things? I'm thinking they might actually come in handy down the road. What do you think?" He looked over the car at Sam.

Sam's mouth compressed as he stared at the lake.

"Hey. What? What is it? Talk," Dean's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Sam's expression.

"Nothing."

"Well, that's convincing. Did monster-us give you the jeebs, huh? 'Cause I gotta be honest – I ain't looking in the mirror for-for a while myself." He tried to lighten the moment, his smile fading away as Sam's expression remained unchanged.

Sam turned, straightening as he looked at his brother, jaw working, his eyes filled with anger.

"Okay. You really want to know what's wrong?"

"Yeah." He didn't. Not really. Sam was pissed. He forced a smile. "Yeah, you know my motto – here to help."

He watched Sam's eyes cut away, as his jaw muscle flexed at the point of his jaw again.

""Here to help." Kind of like you helped Amy?"

_Crap_. It didn't matter how he'd found out, he'd known he would, sometime. "Listen, Sam ..."

"Don't – don't lie to me again. No, don't even talk to me," Sam said, feeling his anger, his bitterness rising, compressing his chest. He closed his eyes. "Yeah, I can't."

He opened the rear door of the car, grabbing his backpack and gear bag.

"You know what, Dean?" The words fell out between his gritted teeth and he started to walk away. "I can't."

Dean came around the back of the car, following Sam up the dock. "You can't what?"

"I can't talk to you right now, Dean!" He swung around, staring at him, his face twisting, arms swinging out in frustration. "I can't even be around you right now!"

"Okay, so –" Dean stopped by the hood of the car, looking at him.

"I think you should just go on without me," Sam said, his voice thick.

Dean let his gaze drop, nodding slightly. _Go on without me_, he thought vaguely. _You mean go on alone, right, Sam? By yourself. Alone. With nobody_. He couldn't blame him; he'd brought it on, another craptastic decision. Another secret between them. It didn't make any difference. Sooner or later he was going to be dying alone anyway. He looked back up at Sam, seeing his brother's chest heaving, the tension in his face and shoulders.

"Go."

"All right." He took a step backwards, and it felt like giving in, giving up. "Sorry, Sam."

Walking back to the trunk he pulled the heads from the well and walked to the rail, throwing them into the lake, all that good satisfaction he'd felt from killing them, from getting rid of at least two of the monsters, gone in the pain that was filling him slowly.

He got into the car, and started the engine, his eyes fixed on his brother, walking slowly up the pier. Sam hadn't looked back, hadn't even slid a sideways look in his direction. He pulled in a deep breath and twisted in the seat, watching the road through the rear window as he reversed the hatchback off the dock and back onto the road, his eyes firmly forward, not allowing himself even the slightest twitch to see if Sam was looking after him.

He had no idea where he was going. East was the direction the first road he came to was heading in, and he followed it, making lefts and rights and continuing east as the sun set behind him, and the car's headlights picked out the white lines.

"_I think you should go on without me."_

Could also be expressed as _get the fuck away from me, I don't want you in my life_, he thought, staring at the road. Maybe that wasn't all bad. Maybe if he was actually alone, he wouldn't be able to let anyone else down. Wouldn't be able to get hurt either. Maybe it would be a good thing.

His mouth thinned out, twisting up slightly. _Just me, myself and my thousand fucking regrets_, he thought, ignoring the bitter edge to the words. And the nightmares … let's not forget the fucking nightmares, those constant snugly-wuggly companions of the endlessly long hours of the night.

He didn't notice how hard he was gripping the wheel, bones standing out white through the skin. Didn't notice his speed creeping up as his foot kept getting heavier on the accelerator. Didn't notice the signs that flashed by, marking off the miles, the towns. He'd known he'd end up alone. He'd thought that it would be because Death would take everyone, even Sam. It hadn't occurred to him before that he could end up alone because he was shutting everyone out.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

"You summoned me!" Jesse stood in the circle, staring at Ellie with wide eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, but I couldn't find another way to get your attention –"

"But you summoned _me_," he said again, turning slowly around and looking around the room, his gaze stopping on Frank, then on Sam, finally on the angel standing by the door. "For him?"

"No," Ellie said quickly. "For Dean."

Jesse's attention returned to her. "I didn't think anyone could summon me."

"I don't think anyone else knows how to, but we really need you, Jesse," she stepped to one side, gesturing at Dean, prone on the bed. "He's been cursed, and we have a tight time limit to free him before it's too late."

Jesse's gaze focussed on the man on the bed. "What do you need?"

"Your blood." She stepped close to the circle, a small piece of parchment and narrow-bladed sharp knife held out toward him in her hands. "Just a little on the parchment will do."

He looked down at the knife and parchment. "It was one of the … Egyptian goddesses, I think, who needed this?"

"Right, Sekhmet. She controls the curse. I have to get her here, return the armlet to her, ask for her favour." She swallowed, knowing how unlikely it was that the plan would play out the way she wanted it to.

He glanced at Castiel who looked away. The angel had been turned into a three-inch tall action figure the last time the two had been face to face. It hadn't been a pleasant experience.

Jesse took the knife, making a small cut on the side of his thumb. He gave Ellie the knife back and took the parchment, letting the blood drip onto it, until the piece was red.

"Can I have the spell you used?" He looked at her, handing back the parchment when it was soaked.

Ellie hesitated for a second then nodded. "Sam?"

Sam walked to the circle, and handed the fax to Jesse. The boy was nineteen, almost a man, still a little too lanky, still to grow into the big frame that promised a big man.

"Thanks." He looked down at the circle. "You can free me, I won't hurt you."

Ellie handed the parchment to Frank and turned back to the circle, kneeling and scratching the blood from the timber floor until the line was broken. Castiel made a noise in his throat and stepped further away.

Jesse ignored him, looking down at Ellie. "I was going to come and see Dean sometime soon anyway. Things are happening …" He glanced at Sam, "… your kind of things. The firstborn nephilim have gathered and they're looking for the missing bloodlines, to build the circle."

Sam nodded. "We've been trying to find them ourselves. What missing bloodlines are they looking for?"

"Azazel's and Amaros'," Jesse said, looking past him to the bed. "The children the council sacrificed so that the circle could never be built."

Sam frowned. "What?"

Jesse looked at him and then at Ellie. "You know that, don't you?"

Ellie moistened her lips, nodding as she looked at Sam. "I'll explain it later." She turned back to Jesse. "Is it Dean and Sam or the children?"

"Any of them will do. The gifts have started to manifest, haven't they?"

"Yes."

"Then they will come here, sooner or later, Ellie," he said quietly. "And they will take whoever they can, whoever has the strongest power from the blood."

"Ellie, we're on a schedule," Frank remarked mildly as he added the parchment to the bowl on the table.

"Jesse, can you come back, in a couple of days, if we're …" her voice trailed off as she looked at the bed. His gaze followed hers.

"Successful? Yes, I'll listen for him." He stepped out of the circle and vanished.

"You ready to light this rocket?" Frank looked at her, at Sam and Castiel. She nodded.

Frank lit the match and dropped it into the bowl. For a second nothing happened, then the contents caught and the flames that shot out of the bowl licked at the ceiling, a curtain of fire that shimmered in the dimly lit room.

* * *

_**Seattle, Washington**_

Dean stared out of the window into the darkness, a formless anxiety filling him as Sam drove them closer and closer to Seattle. He didn't want to be anywhere the near the city and he wasn't interested in knowing why. Bobby's flask was almost empty and he sipped at it again, knowing the liquor wasn't helping, knowing it wasn't doing much of anything lately, but clinging to it like a life-ring, because it was all he had to keep the darkness that closed around the edges of his mind at bay.

_You are the reason I've been waiting all these years, somebody holds the key_

The delicate voice and picked guitar twisted and turned through his thoughts like a vine, wrapping him in a sense of something missing, something wrong, something strange going on.

"Sam?" He looked over at his brother, face painted in the red wash of the taillights in front of them.

"Yeah?"

"Can you think of anyone I …" he hesitated, not even sure of what he was trying to ask, "anyone I might have wanted to talk to?"

It wasn't the right question and he knew it, but he couldn't think of anything else. Didn't know the right question.

Sam glanced over at him and shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," he muttered, unscrewing the flask and sipping a little more from it.

_But I'm near the end and I just ain't got the time_

* * *

The bar's lighting was a soft, diffused bluey-white and it should have made the patrons look like three-day old corpses, Dean thought, swallowing another mouthful of the very good whiskey and looking across the table at the woman sitting opposite him. It said something for the designers that it didn't. He could see her eyes clearly enough, the pupils expanded, the curve of her smile warm and welcoming, the way she sat, her eyes and body turned toward him, obvious tells that stirred an answering need in himself.

"Well, look at you," she said softly, smiling.

"Yeah, look at me." He looked down at the table, feeling one side of his mouth lifting, the half-smile not even close to his eyes or any part of the rest of him. He looked back up at her, and knew what she offered, knew he wanted it more than he'd wanted anything in the last six months, a chance to touch someone, to lose himself in someone, and he didn't care if it didn't mean anything, didn't care that she didn't know him or care about him, didn't care that he didn't want to know her either. He wanted to feel something that was alive and unconnected to his life.

_And I'm wasted and I can't find my way home._

"You want to move this conversation elsewhere?" Her voice dropped, the warm tones seductive and he felt desire uncoil in his body as he stared into her eyes.

* * *

The apartment was old but the décor and the furnishing were modern. He looked at her sitting at the foot of the bed, the black underwear stark against her smooth pale skin and felt a shiver run down his spine, when she moved toward him and the long spill of her reddish-gold hair fell down over her shoulder. His pulse accelerated, eyes widening slightly. For a second, a fraction of a second, he saw something … someone … else overlaying her, and a rending pain tore through him. Then it was gone, and she settled herself over his hips, stretching out her hands to him. He watched her, waiting for that … vision … to repeat, he'd felt close to knowing who – what – it was, but it didn't.

_And I ain't done nothing wrong, but I can't find my way home._

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The figure that stood in the blood circle was tall, taller than Sam by at least a head. She was very lean, long arms and legs, a flat abdomen, full, heavy breasts pushing against the thin cotton of the dress she wore, the bodice held up by a wide, flat necklet of polished metal squares, linked together. Her straight long hair was blue-black, like a raven's wing, shining in the light from the lamp on the nightstand, her skin a smooth golden olive, flawless, with a faint golden sheen to it. Her eyes were dark, heavily outlined in kohl, the liner extending out past the eye to her temple.

"I am Sekhmet, queen of war, of vengeance and magic. Who has Summoned me from my sleep?"

Ellie drew in a deep breath, picking up the box that held the armlet, drawing the goddess' attention as she bowed deeply.

"Sekhmet, goddess of war and vengeance, of magic and hunting, we have Summoned you to return what is yours."

She was acutely aware that the three men in the room had withdrawn to the walls. In Egyptian lore, the priestesses were the ones who communed with the goddesses. Sekhmet's eyes rested on the armlet appraisingly. She reached out and took it from the box, slipping it over her arm and admiring it, her gaze shifting back to Ellie after a few moments.

"You are a true servant, child. I have been without this for millennia, where did you come across it?"

"It was sent to a man," Ellie said softly, her eyes cutting to the bed, "enchanted by a spell to take his mind and lock it away, to place him in the lands of the dead where we cannot reach him."

Sekhmet's eyes narrowed as she looked at Dean. "This man, he is dear to you?"

"Yes."

"You have a favour to ask of me?" The goddess turned back to her, heavy black brows rising slightly. "A favour for the return of the armlet?"

"If you so wish," Ellie said diffidently.

Sekhmet smiled suddenly, bright white teeth flashing between the full wine-coloured lips. "You _are_ a true servant, child, polite and deferential as is fitting. I desire to grant you this favour."

She looked down at the circle she stood in. "You will bring him to me."

Ellie looked at Sam and Frank and they edged around the goddess to the bed, lifting Dean and carrying him to the edge of the circle. Sekhmet looked down at him, extending her hand. Her fingers grazed his forehead and Ellie's jaw tightened as she saw a pale silver light slip from their ends under his skin, his skull visible beneath them.

She saw his eyelids flutter, his chest hitch sharply as consciousness began to return. Sekhmet lifted her hand and folded her arms over her chest, watching Sam and Frank ease Dean back onto the bed.

"He is sleeping normally now. He will wake in an hour or two," the goddess said, and turned to Ellie. "What enemy does he have who would bring this punishment down upon him?"

Ellie shook her head. "I do not know."

Sekhmet looked at her closely. "You would do well to find out. In my experience of vengeance among men, true hatred rarely ceases with the first attempt."

Ellie nodded slowly. "Yes, my experience is the same."

"Release me, child, that I may protect those in my care and perform my duties again."

"Thank you." Ellie walked to the bowl and threw in a handful of a dark-blue powder, the flames shooting to the ceiling and changing to violet then black as the goddess in the circle disappeared.

She walked slowly to the bed, sitting beside Dean and resting her fingers against the side of his neck. His pulse had slowed a little, and his breathing was the soft, deep cycle of sleep. She lifted an eyelid, seeing the pupils contract as the light from the lamp struck it, his head turning away slightly in protest. As much as she wanted to wake him, see his recognition straight away, she resisted the impulse. Goddesses, no matter which religion or persuasion, rarely gave bad advice when it came to matters like these. She would wait for him to wake naturally.

* * *

Dean rolled over onto his side, his eyes opening slowly, then widening suddenly as memory crashed into his consciousness. The bedroom was his, his and Ellie's and he sat up, looking around, seeing the familiar photographs and personal items, casually spread out over the furniture. He was home. His head snapped around as he heard a sound from the door.

Ellie walked straight to him, wrapping her arms around him, holding him tightly, his arms snaking around her and pulling her closer. He dragged in a deep breath, filling himself with her scent, his lips grazing over her skin, a shudder passing through him as the emotions he'd gone through in that wasteland in his mind finally released him.

"What happened?" He leaned back, looking into her face.

"Cursed object." Ellie sat on the bed next to him, her hand running down his arm, rising again to touch his cheek lightly, the desire to make sure it was him, that he was here, back with them, irresistible. "Someone sent it in a package. You touched it, and I found you on the kitchen floor."

He frowned. "Who sent it?"

"We don't know. Frank's taken the wrapping paper. He's looking into it." Her lips compressed as she looked at him. "Where were you?"

His memories were clear, terrifying, desolating, and he shook his head, throat working as he tried to push them aside long enough to answer her, looking down at the floor. "In the, uh, past, I think."

He looked up. "Alternative past. Where I never met you. Never knew you."

She moved closer to him, and he looked away, trying to not let it out, trying to keep it from exploding all over her. He would tell her about it – _all of it_ – soon, but it was too fresh, too shocking right now, that struggle of keeping everything in, of not letting anything out at all. He'd been alone. Sam had been there but he'd been alone, no trust, no quiet place to rest, no comfort, no hope. _Alone_.

He felt her arms wrap around him again, and closed his eyes, grateful for her immediate understanding, grateful that he didn't have to face that life, living without her, grateful that life had been just a dream, hadn't wiped out this life. He'd skated too close to that life when he'd lived it the first time, pulled back from his despair and the insidious longing for it to be over time after time by the woman who held him. He wondered if he'd even still be alive now, if she hadn't been there, if he'd really had no one. Where he'd been, locked in the curse, it hadn't felt like it.

It didn't matter. He'd have been dead in one way or another without her, dead in the ground or dead walking around. There wasn't that much difference between them. Just the pain.

He turned and leaned on her, his arms closing around her ribs again, the soft brush of her hair against his cheek. He hadn't remembered her, when he'd been trapped in there, because she'd never existed for him there, he thought ... but somehow, he'd remembered something, had known something was missing.

He'd never taken it for granted, this life, this love. But he realised that he'd come to feel as if it would always be there for him, always be his … and it was scaring him, the recognition that wasn't necessarily the case. It could be taken from him as easily as everything else, deliberately or accidentally. He couldn't protect them from everything.

* * *

**END**


	11. Chapter 11 Bad Love

**Chapter 11 Bad Love**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Ellie exhaled softly as she closed and moved another file from the pile in front of her to the pile beside her, rubbing the bridge of her nose tiredly. She picked up the cup of tea next to her and sipped it, making a face at the tepid liquid.

Outside the house, rain spattered against the glass panes of the windows, and the sky was dark, necessitating the lights on in the house. September had swept in with a rush, and the month, which was normally fine and cold and dry, had been subject to two rain fronts so far, barrelling up the west coast and turning inland, stalling against the western flanks of the mountains. The kitchen was warm and cheery, but the steady downpour of the last two days had given them little chance to do anything other than try and catch up on the research, and prowl around the house in increasing frustration.

"Look at this," Dean said, looking at her from the other side of the table and pushing a newspaper across to her. She picked it up, leaning back in her chair as she read the story.

Dean got up, taking their cups to the sink. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, pouring himself a fresh coffee from the pot. Standing at the window, he watched the rain absently while he waited for the water to boil.

"That doesn't sound good," Ellie remarked as she put the paper down. "It would be a good case for Sariel and Achina to take for their first solo run."

He looked around at her. "I thought we could take it."

Ellie raised a brow quizzically. "You hate witches."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, they're generally speaking gross. But, they're also, as a general rule, not all that physically demanding, and …I think that, you know, now … that wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"You don't want me chasing monsters," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting.

"Right. Yeah, I don't want you chasing monsters or chasing anything that needs chasing," he agreed immediately, walking over to her and sitting down in the chair next to her. "Look at it, Santa Barbara for cryin' out loud. They don't come any better than that."

She snorted. "Not all witches are cake-walks, of course."

"No. But I figure we're due," he said, smiling dryly. "Given the last one."

"You're right."

The smile disappeared as he looked at her warily. "I am?"

"Absolutely." She nodded, looking at him. "I have to be careful, and this kind of job will make that easier."

"Okay then," he said slowly. He'd never won a round that easily. Ellie smiled.

"We could take Carl or Sam along, give us some back up?"

"What's going on?" He looked narrowly at her. Not just agreeing with him, but suggesting back up? It didn't sound like her. At all.

"Nothing. I just think you're right, and I don't want the risks to be any greater than they need to be," she said, leaning toward him. "I don't want you to have to be any more worried than you need to be."

He let out his breath. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously." She looked past him, at the steam rising from the spout of the kettle and got up, walking over to the stove. "How long do you think it'll take?"

He swivelled around in the chair, resting his arm over the back as he watched her make a cup of the herbal tea she preferred when she was pregnant. "A couple of days, maybe. Santa Barbara's not that big a town."

She nodded. "Do you want to see if Sam feels like it?"

"Yeah." He pulled the paper closer to him, scanning over the story again. "How d'you think a witch managed to screw up a love spell so badly?"

* * *

_**Highway 101, California**_

Ellie watched the road carefully, the wipers going full speed as they passed under another front drenching the coast. The traffic was light and they'd made good time, heading out just before dawn in the morning and already past San Jose with another three or four hours to go. Behind them, Carl was keeping pace, his lipstick-red truck easy to keep track of, even in the miserable weather.

Dean had been right, she thought. No witch, no matter how incompetent, could screw up a love spell as spectacularly as the ones the paper had reported. Not that the paper had covered all the details. The story had just been about a guy who'd proposed to a girl with a single red rose, and then had somehow convinced her that they should dive out of a plane without parachutes. Neither were dead, fortunately, although the guy would have a severe limp for the rest of his life. The second … couple, if you could call them that … had been separated for a month. Then they'd gotten back together again, but the results had been …chaotic, to say the least, with the guy raping his girlfriend and then six other women in the neighbourhood before the police had arrested him. The girl had claimed that she didn't know what had happened, but in the grainy picture of the guy in his apartment, there'd been a single rose sitting on a table in the background.

Some kind of spell that took the emotions already there and turned them up to eleven? She pushed the speculation aside. They would know more when they got there, when they could talk to the people involved, she decided. It didn't sound like incompetence to her, though, it sounded deliberate.

The rain disappeared behind them as the highway swept closer to the coastline and she pulled her sunglasses from the seat and put them on, the sunshine heating up the closed truck cab.

She glanced at the passenger seat where Dean was slouched into the corner between the back of the seat and the door, a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes as he slept. He'd told her what had happened, when he'd been cursed and locked into an alternative reality. Told her how he'd felt, utterly alone and spiralling down into a depression that had seemed to have no bottom, no end. Most of what he'd gone through had been the same as his life over '11 and '12. She remembered his despair over Cas, how lost he'd felt when he'd lied to Sam about killing the kitsune. And the deep black grief over Bobby's death. The difference was that they'd gone through it together, in real life, and he'd been able to deal, slowly but surely with all that pain, all that anger and frustration and sorrow. He'd told her how much it had scared him, when he'd finally woken, realising that it could've been his life.

There was still a residual fear in him. She could feel it. Perhaps it was more uneasiness than fear. She suspected that he was worried about what was coming, more than anything from his or their past. She was worried about that too. He and Sam, and their children, were right in the firing line, and there was no way to keep them completely safe, no place for them to go where they would be out of reach of the power of the firstborn.

She'd had to tell Sam about the original nine and the sacrifice that the council had decided on to ensure that the circle could never be raised, after Jesse mentioned it. He'd been shocked. Dean's reaction would be the same – or worse, she thought nervously.

Dean stirred and rubbed his eyes, levering himself upright and groaning softly.

"Where are we?" He looked around, seeing the Pacific to his right and the dry-looking, chaparral-covered hillsides on the left.

"About two hours past San Jose," Ellie said. "Another couple of hours to go."

"You want me to drive for a while?" He yawned widely. She shook her head, smiling.

"I'm good." She pushed the file lying on the seat between them a little closer to him. "Those people, Dean … thinking about it, it doesn't seem like an incompetent witch to me."

"No?" He reached out and snagged the file, dragging it over and flipping the cover open. "What then?"

She wrinkled up her nose. "Well, more like a very competent witch having a bit of fun at those people's expense?"

"Don't they have better things to do?"

"You'd think," she agreed dryly. "I haven't been able to keep track of which witch has been doing what since _The Hidden Door_ was destroyed." The bookshop had been a valuable resource, its owners both practising adepts of the Right Hand Path, committed to the Light. She hadn't had the time to go searching for those who been friends of Eamon and Fionnula, who might have been able to tell them more about the Wicca, the white witches and the practitioners of the Path.

"Can't help you there, we never met any witches we didn't want to kill," Dean grunted, looking carefully through the reports.

"Is there any way of tracking a spell?" He looked over at her. "Looks like whatever affected these people was delivered somehow with the rose."

Ellie shook her head. "It's one of the millions of things we still have to get into the database, the common ingredients and their effects."

Dean grinned at the impatience in her voice. "Yeah, so one day all we have to do is push a button and it'll all be laid out for us, complete with map and a set of instructions on how to gank the monster?"

"Laugh it up, one day it will," Ellie retorted. It would cut their time spent on research, cut the numbers of errors that every hunter's journal contained, things passed along orally never quite the same as the original information.

"Bring it on, I'm okay with just getting out there and doing it, not having to read about it," he said with a shrug, looking back down at the file on his lap. The rose bothered him.

"So these roses, they work like a cursed object? You just have to touch one and that does it?"

"Could be. Or it could be as simple as a structured hallucinogenic, absorbed by touch."

He felt his brows rise. "Come again?"

Ellie glanced at him. "It's just as easy to change the parameters of something that already exists in nature as it is to curse the object to a particular purpose. And the effect of those roses is really specific. It didn't add anything new, I don't think, it just took whatever was already there and dialled up the volume to max."

"This guy wanted to rape women but it was under his control until he touched the rose?"

"More or less." She shrugged. "Maybe he just liked angry sex, I don't know, but whatever it was it went to the furthest extreme he was capable of – it didn't turn him into Ted Bundy, just into someone who had no inhibitions about doing what he felt like doing."

Dean nodded slowly. "And this kind of spell takes a lot of skill."

"More than your garden-variety witch, yeah. More than a demon-assisted witch, unless of course it was the demon's idea, not the witch's." A small line appeared between her brows as she considered that option.

He closed the file and put it back on the seat beside him, tipping his head back. "How're we gonna find this witch?"

Ellie exhaled softly. "We'll start with the usual, and then go door-knocking if we can't turn anything up."

* * *

_**Santa Barbara, California**_

The town was ridiculously picturesque as they drove in a couple of hours before sunset, the stucco buildings with their red-tiled roofs, sprays of neon-bright fuchsia and lilac and fire-engine red bougainvillea cascading over walls and archways and trellis, gardens filled with massed hedges of azalea, rhododendron, camellia and gardenia, all bathed in the warm golden sunshine under a cloudless blue sky, the deeper blue of the ocean visible in glimpses at every cross street.

The warm, scented air came in through the open windows as Ellie turned off the highway south of the harbour and drove slowly through the small streets until she found a motel with a vacancy. Behind them, Carl's truck pulled up with a squeak of brakes and Dean winced slightly, getting out and going into the office to grab them a room.

The rooms were plain and simple, decorated in blues and greens to go with the seaside motif. Opening the windows, however, brought the scent of the Pacific in on a light breeze, and Dean flopped back onto the bed, breathing deeply, a smile creasing his face.

"It's a job, remember, not a vacation," Ellie reminded him, her mouth tucking in as she took in the smile. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his side.

"Working vacation. Worth it to be really warm for a change," he countered, pulling off his jacket. Under it, the ubiquitous plaid flannel shirt was unbuttoned, showing off a once-white t-shirt with several rust-coloured stains.

"I know you have new clothes at home," Ellie looked at the t-shirt. "Is there any reason you don't wear 'em?"

"They don't feel right," he said lazily, eyes closed again. A thought occurred to him.

"You wearing that business suit for the interviews?"

She laughed. "No, didn't bring it. You and Carl can handle the cops and hospital. I'm going to talk to the local talent."

"Damn," he muttered, just loudly enough for her to hear.

The knock at the door cut off her response, and she walked over to open it. Carl stood outside, a hesitant smile on his face.

"So … what's the plan?" He glanced past Ellie to Dean, the smile faltering a little as he took the man's unmoving position on the bed.

"Come in, Dean's just … thinking," Ellie said acerbically, hearing his muffled snort behind her.

He sat up, looking at the young hunter and gesturing to a chair. "It's a good question, Carl." He turned to look at Ellie. "What _is_ the plan?"

Ellie looked at him for a moment, seeing the confusion in Carl's face, then glanced at her watch. "Got another hour before closing time for most places. You two take a run at the newspaper and see if you can find the reporter who did both stories. I'm going to visit some of the esoteric stores and see if there's anyone new in town."

Dean glanced at Carl. "Hope you brought a suit?"

"Sure did," Carl said, nodding enthusiastically. "What are we after from the reporter?"

"Background mostly. Who they talked to, what the scenes looked like, what the vics said," Dean said, yawning in between words. He looked up at Ellie. "Must be that sea air."

She smiled and snagged the car keys from the table. "You can ride with Carl in that case."

Dean's mouth open and closed as she disappeared out the door. He heard the rumble of the Impala's engine a moment later and the low growl as she reversed out of the slot and drove out of the lot.

Carl looked at him. "Must be cool to be able to work with your wife on jobs."

"Sometimes," Dean said, exhaling softly. "Sometimes she's a pain in the ass."

He looked at the younger man resignedly. "Get changed, grab your gear."

Carl nodded and got up, walking out quickly, Dean watching him go. A rookie. He was watching a rookie. He let himself fall back onto the bed, then rolled to the side and got up. Just because the kid had the same last name didn't make him family – not yet. But he knew that Ellie had orchestrated the situation so that he could get to know Carl, and find out, one way or the other.

* * *

Ellie drove slowly back toward State Street and the business area of the town. The last time she was here, there'd been a small but thriving Wiccan community living here and the businesses that served them had been clustered around a three block length of Chapala Street. If they were still there, it would be the place to start asking about anyone new in town.

The traffic was heavy and she circled around the downtown area on the residential streets, the car unfortunately conspicuous, the engine's deep notes bouncing off the single storey houses as she went by. She let out a sigh of relief as she saw the stores, still adding their glitter and whimsy to the small street, half-moons and stars and crystals flashing and reflecting in the late afternoon sunshine.

The oldest of the occult businesses was centred in the middle of the stretch, a frame house with its front wall almost at the sidewalk, the large, heavy painted sign proclaiming its age and respectability under the name. _The Morrigu's Cauldron_. She smiled slightly. Nice blend of Celtic and Shakespeare and all '70's chutzpah, she thought. Bells tinkled as she pushed the painted glass door open, and the smells of incense and herbs and wax crowded into her nostrils and throat, so thick it felt as if they should be visible in the dim lighting.

"Can I help you?" The voice was female, deep and soothingly mellow, and Ellie turned her head to look at the woman behind the glass-topped counter.

Tall and willowy, with long, dark auburn hair drawn back from her face and almond-shaped, whiskey-coloured eyes, bright against the smooth, olive complexion, Ellie felt a faint jolt, as if she'd seen her before. Her features were delicate, a hint of Asia in the high, wide cheekbones and eyes, and the sloping jaw line.

"I'm sorry, have we met somewhere?"

The woman smiled politely. "I don't think so. I'm sure I would have remembered someone with as vivid an aura as yourself." She reached a hand across the counter. "Isabeau Ramsey."

"Ellie Winchester," Ellie took the woman's hand, feeling the long fingers tighten around her own.

"Eleanor Katherine, isn't it?" Isabeau stared at her. "Sorry, I have a touch of clairvoyance, and I get very strong impressions from you."

"Are you a witch?" Ellie withdrew her hand, feeling a tingling in her fingertips. She was having misgivings about the woman already, sensing a lot of power and knowledge in the slender frame.

"Not really," Isabeau shrugged delicately with one shoulder. "I prefer research to spell-casting. You're looking for a witch?"

Ellie glanced away, her eyes adjusted to the soft lighting of the store. "Possibly. I was wondering if any of the locals had noticed newcomers in the last couple of months."

"But of course," Isabeau nodded. "A couple came just after Litha actually. I haven't seen them, they took the big house hear Hidden Valley, but a few of my customers have mentioned them."

Litha was midsummer's eve, Ellie thought, looking down at the counter absently. And a couple, that was unusual.

"Did anyone catch their names?"

"Not that I know of," Isabeau said. "I was dubious at first. The estate is a rental for a part of the year, but out of most people's price range and it seemed unlikely that a Wiccan couple would want that kind of ostentation in their lives. They seem to like the high life though, and they've been to the Smoke Crystal a couple of times, picking up supplies."

She looked at Ellie. "You're a hunter?"

"I'm looking for whoever was responsible for the love spells used over the last two months," Ellie hedged.

Isabeau nodded. "We've been looking for them ourselves. I wouldn't have thought that couple would be involved though." She caught her lip between her teeth. "They don't seem the type."

Ellie shrugged slightly. "Hard to tell types these days. Thanks for your help."

* * *

Dean got out of the truck's cab and tugged impatiently at the collar that suddenly felt too tight around his neck. Carl'd just managed to catch Chris Ravenwood before he'd left the office, arranging a meeting at the small bar down the street from the newspaper office. There was still warmth in the late summer air and the suit felt hot and suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced over the pickup's tray at Carl, the corner of his mouth tucking in slightly as he saw the young man running a finger around the inside of his collar and tugging at it.

"How often do you need to wear these on jobs?" Carl asked as he came around the rear of the truck.

"Too often," Dean replied, turning for the neon-outlined door behind them. "Depends on what kind of job, but sooner or later you need to get information from someone in an office, and this is the easiest way to do it." He glanced over his shoulder. "You got ID?"

Carl nodded, pulling out the FBI badge he'd gotten from Frank. Dean looked at it and sighed. Frank must have been having one of his rare humour days. The poor kid looked about fifteen in the photo.

He pulled open the door and followed Carl inside. The bar was narrow but long, clay-tiled floor and bare white walls giving the space a relaxed, Spanish feel. A dozen or so customers were spread out along the long polished wooden bar, and a few others scattered in small groups around the tables that were set out a little from the opposite wall. They walked slowly to the end of the bar, looking for the reporter.

"FBI?" A woman's voice, low and amused, came from behind them. Dean turned around to see a tall woman slip from a barstool, her hand extended.

"I'm Chris Ravenwood," she said, golden-grey eyes smiling into his as he took it. She was very close to his own height, pale blonde hair cut into a smooth, curving bob that framed the heart-shaped face.

"Special Agent Jim Page, my partner, Special Agent Bobby Plant."

She tilted her head to one side, smiling slightly. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"You did both stories on the love spells in town recently, didn't you?" Dean followed her to a small table, sitting in the chair opposite her, leaving Carl with the chair to her left.

"The FBI is investigating love spells these days?" She set her glass of wine on the table, one brow rising. "Kind of a waste of the taxpayers' dollars, isn't it?"

Carl looked at her earnestly. "Ma'am, people were injured and the Bureau has the jurisdiction to investigate –"

"Ha ha, take it easy there, Bobby," Dean cut in, "There have been several other cases in Nevada that have been similar, we're just here to find out if there's any connection."

Chris sipped her wine, looking at him thoughtfully. "Have there? That's strange, because I ran a full nation-wide search for anything even remotely resembling this sort of thing and came up with nothing."

"We don't release all the details of strange cases to the general public, ma'am," Carl said stiffly.

She glanced at him, then back to Dean, who smiled. "And of course, your search wouldn't have included state and federal law enforcement databases, would it?"

"No. I don't have access to that kind of data, agent," she conceded the point, and leaned back in her chair. "What do you want to know?"

"You stated that you saw the first couple in hospital, after the, uh, plane incident," Dean looked at her. "Can you tell us what they said about it?"

"Well, the girl did most of the talking, the guy was pretty much out of it when I got there." She picked up her glass. "She said that she'd been to a witch, got a love spell guaranteed to make her boyfriend love her forever – her words, not mine – and then he'd proposed on the plane, before he suddenly jumped out the door, pulling her with him."

"Did she happen to mention if the spell was a potion or a powder?" Carl asked, looking at the small notebook in his hands. "And, uh, where she met the witch?"

She smiled. "Does that matter?"

"Every detail counts, ma'am," Carl looked up at her. Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, shooting a warning look at Carl.

"He just loves to dot the i's and cross those t's."

"She said that she got a rose, from a shop called the _Smoke Crystal_, down on Chapala Street. All the boyfriend had to do was smell it, and the spell would start." She looked from Dean to Carl and back. "You guys, you're not really taking this seriously?"

"Ma'am –"

"We're obliged to double-check everything about a situation like this. I don't suppose that the guy was under the effect of a spell, but we're investigating a case where a hallucinogenic has been used to create a kind of temporary madness in some victims," Dean intervened, leaning on the table. "Did the cops take the rose from the girl's apartment?"

Chris looked at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "Hallucinogenics. Okay, that's slightly more real-world based. I don't know. I would guess so."

"You didn't check with the police about the two incidents?"

"No. There wasn't enough for them to go with, and the day sergeant told me that they were probably going to try and forget about them." She smiled wryly. "I only wrote the stories because it was a very slow week; they wouldn't have made the paper if anything else had happened."

"Thanks for you time, Ms Ravenwood, we'll be in touch if we need anything else." Dean stood up, Carl rising reluctantly after him.

"You know, Jim, you look very familiar to me, did you spend a lot of time in Seattle?" Chris looked up at Dean.

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. "Haven't been there in years, and even then it wasn't a long visit."

"Oh, my mistake." She looked back down at her glass and Dean turned away, feeling a prickle at the back of his neck. _What the fuck had that been about?_

* * *

"Drop me off at the police station, Carl," Dean said as they got back into the truck. "And then run a comprehensive background on that reporter – if you can't find anything out about her, call Frank and tell him to run one and send it out as soon as he can."

Carl nodded. "You didn't buy what she was telling us?"

He hadn't bought anything about her. She'd seemed all wrong for a small town reporter, even a town as up-market as this, and she'd known a lot more than she'd let on.

"No, she doesn't fit in here," he said shortly. Carl pulled up in front of the police station and he got out, crossing the street and going in the front door. The desk sergeant nodded and buzzed him through when he showed his ID.

"I need to see the evidence for the love spell cases you guys had a couple of weeks ago."

The sergeant waved his hand toward the rear hall. "Third door on the left, see Bucky, he'll get whatever you need."

_Bucky?_ "Okay, thanks." Dean walked down the hall and went into the third door.

The officer at the desk smiled at him and Dean smiled back. _Bucky. Okay_.

"I'm after the evidence in the so-called love spell cases."

"Sure. What did you want to see?" His oversized front teeth made the words sound mangled, and he had an unfortunate habit of sucking the saliva back into his mouth after every second word. Dean repressed the urge to wipe his mouth in sympathy.

"Everything you've got."

"There's a table in the next room," Bucky said, slurping unself-consciously and gesturing to a door to the left of the counter. "I'll bring 'em through there."

There were two boxes of stuff, and Dean pulled out the tagged bags one by one, laying them on the table and looking at each sealed item. Most of it was junk. Two items caught his attention. A bag held a small coin, silver and old-looking. He couldn't make out the markings on it. The other was the condition of the roses. They were fresh. They should have been wilted and dried up by now, he thought, picking up the bags that held them gingerly, but both looked as if they'd been cut that morning, the petals velvety and deep with colour.

"Uh, Bucky?" He stuck his head back through the door. "I need to sign out some of these."

"Yessir, I'll bring the forms in."

* * *

Dean tucked the brown envelope under his arm, pulling out his cell as he came out of the building.

"Ellie, you still driving around?" He looked up the street, seeing the black car like a raven among pigeons. "Yeah, I see you. I'm in front of the cop station."

She pulled over and waited for him, an eyebrow raised as he dropped the envelope on the seat between them.

"Present?"

"Yep. Romantic, but not for touching," he said. "How'd you do?"

"A reclusive couple have been buying magical supplies from a store on Chapala Street. They arrived at the end of June. Keep to themselves but definitely in the game."

"A couple?" Dean frowned.

"Yeah, my reaction too," she glanced at him. "Did the reporter have anything to add?"

"Not so much." The frown deepened. "But she wasn't on the level, and she wasn't what you'd expect to see here."

He looked at Ellie's profile, seeing the quick look she flicked at him as she made the next turn.

"She was … I don't know, hard, like a big-city girl," he shrugged. "I told Carl to get Frank to run a background on her. She said that both the girl and the guy got the roses from a store on Chapala, called the Smoke Crystal."

Ellie nodded. "Yeah, that's where our mystery couple have been getting their supplies from. I went to see the owners and they gave me a list of what the couple had purchased. Also, all of the practising witches in the area have been trying to find out who's been doing these spells." She glanced down at the envelope. "The roses in there?"

"Yeah, and something else the cops found at Murray's apartment. A coin."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

* * *

Dean's phone rang as they pulled into the motel parking lot.

"What's up?"

Ellie half-listened to his end of the conversation as she gathered up the stuff from the seat and got out of the car, locking it and walking to the room door, aware of Dean a couple of steps behind her.

"Thanks. Yeah." He closed the phone and followed Ellie inside.

"Well?"

"Frank ran the check. The chick doesn't exist. Name's from a gravestone in Milwaukee, two year old girl died of pneumonia in 1984. No school records, no college records, no employment, Social Security, health insurance, nada on everything." He pulled off his jacket and slung it onto the back of the chair at the small table. "She must have forged some documents to get a job as a journalist, but there're no records of her existing before eight months ago, when she got the job here."

"Well, that's interesting," Ellie opened the envelope and shook out the evidence bags onto the table, pulling a handful of written notes from her bag as well. Dean tugged at his tie, snorting.

"Yeah, not quite the right word for it." He turned at the knock on the door, opening it and letting Carl in. "Why would anyone want to fake their way into becoming a reporter for a small town paper?"

"Did Frank call?" Carl asked as he sat down and looked at the bags on the table.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. But we're no wiser as to who she was, or why she's here."

He leaned over the table and picked up the bag with the coin in it, smoothing out the plastic and taking a couple of shots of it with his phone. He dialled Sam.

"Sam? Sending you a couple of photos of a coin the cops found here. Have a look and see if it rings any bells for you?" He sent the photos through and closed the phone.

Carl looked down at the roses. "Uh, are these the roses from the cases?"

"Yeah." Dean sat down at the table.

"Are they fake?"

"Nope. Real, fresh roses."

"Shouldn't they, uh, be … kind of dead by now?"

"Yep," Dean said, looking at them. "It's been three weeks since the first case, two since the second."

Ellie picked up one of the bags and looked at the soft, lush petals. "Well, we can rule out all the non-magical possibilities from this."

She moved her bag to the floor and pulled out the chair between the two men. "The Smoke Crystal sold the couple belladonna, aconite, mandrake root, powdered dragon's blood, thirteen black human tallow candles, nine beeswax red candles and a pint of menstrual blood."

Dean made a face. "Witches …"

"Uh, human fat candles?" Carl looked at her. "How do they get the fat?"

"Liposuction clinics these days, I guess," Ellie said absently, reading through the rest of her notes.

"What kind of spell would they use those for?"

"The candles are general, although made from human tallow, that's a bit more specific to a spell that has a physical effect," she said, looking up at him. "Belladonna is a hallucinogen, and aconite works as a local anaesthetic absorbed through the skin, so they would suit these spells. Mandrake's used for a lot of things, including summoning the more powerful entities. Powdered dragon's blood … I don't know. I've never even heard of it being sold in this country. It used to only be available in northern China. The menstrual blood, that'll be for these spells, fertility is strongly connected to attraction."

"Uh, I know you've been doing this for a long time an' all, but how do you know so much about this stuff?" Carl looked at her, wide-eyed. Ellie looked up at him.

"Research, Carl," she said gently.

"She dated a witch," Dean added, with a quick sideways glance at her. Ellie gave him a sour look.

"I knew about this stuff long before I met Remy."

"Anyway … do we know where these witches are?" Dean took the list of ingredients from the pile, looking down it.

"They rented a big place out of town." Ellie rubbed her forehead lightly with the inside of her wrist. "You could probably call around the real estate agents and find out quickly enough, there can't be many around."

Dean looked at her, recognising the beginnings of weariness in the gesture. "We'll grab some food and work out the details while we eat, okay?"

* * *

"Did Laney tell you that Emma bailed, right after we left Oregon?" Carl looked at Dean over his burger.

"She called and said Emma left, went to look up some signs of a vampire nest in Maine," Dean said slowly, flicking a look at Ellie, who was making a pot of coffee in the kitchenette.

Carl shook his head, swallowing his mouthful. "Nuh-uh, Laney was pissed. Emma didn't say a word to anyone, just took off when we were going through South Dakota."

"Anyone know why?" Dean looked down at his food, feeling a prickle at the back of his neck.

"No," he said. "I didn't like her much. She thought she was better than everyone else, but the truth was she just didn't care at all."

Dean nodded. He'd gotten that impression as well. "Did it leave Laney short-handed?"

"Not really," Carl said, taking another bite. "With Twist and the folks you sent along, we've been pretty much on top of the wendigo situation. And there was another nest of vampires, a big one, in Wisconsin, but we took care of that pretty easily. They seemed kind of disorganised, really random."

"Why'd you get into this, Carl?" Dean looked at him curiously. "I thought all Dad's people were pretty much the normal, apple-pie kind?"

Carl laughed, a little self-consciously. "Yeah, I guess most of us are. My uncle was the black sheep, he was a hunter, but none of us knew it. Used to turn up from time to time and my dad would have to stitch him up, and he'd stay for a couple of days and scare the crap out of us kids with his stories, then he'd go away again and we wouldn't see him til the next time he came in the middle of the night, all torn up." He put down his burger, looking at his plate. "He tried to warn my dad. Came to the house just before Christmas in 2009, and said that things were happening, really bad things and Dad needed to get us all out, away somewhere else."

_When Lucifer rose_, Dean thought, watching the expressions passing over the younger man's face.

"Dad didn't, of course. Didn't believe a word of it." Carl let out a long, slow breath. "I don't know, exactly what happened but something came for our family in the night, and Mom hustled us down to the basement, and there was a lot of gunfire, a lot of screaming."

"We were in that basement for two days, then Mom went out, to look for food," he said softly. "She didn't come back and I had to go out a couple of days later, my baby brother wasn't doing good down there."

"Carl …" Ellie's voice was very gentle behind Dean, and he looked up, his eyes bright with tears.

"It's okay, you guys, you're just the, uh, first I've really told it all to," he said, catching his breath. "Uncle Pete near killed me when he saw me sneaking around what was left of the house, just managed to swing the barrel of his gun away in time. He got us out, but Toby – my brother – he died anyway, didn't have enough food all that time. Uncle Pete took us to Peg's and we stayed there for a while."

He shook his head. "Emma told me it was because of Pete that we were attacked, but that was just the sort of crap she liked to spread around. Pete saved us kids, anyway. And, growing up with it, I knew I wanted to do what he did … make sure it didn't happen to anyone else's family."

Dean closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, feeling Ellie's hand close tightly around his shoulder. The cycle was endless. It didn't matter how much you might think you'd escaped from it, it pulled everyone back in, went around and around again. He let out the breath he'd been holding and opened his eyes, looking into Carl's.

"It's not the way to deal, Carl," he said quietly. "You should get out."

"No, I know," Carl looked at him. "I'm not hunting out of revenge or because I need payback." He shrugged slightly. "I'm not that smart, I know that, it's not like I'm going to get into college or have a career. But I'm good at this, and it means something, means something to me, that I can do it."

Dean felt his mouth lift in an involuntary smile as he listened to him. Sounded like someone he knew, had known, a long time ago. He nodded.

* * *

Dean looked at the pattern of light on the ceiling above him. The top of the curtains didn't quite meet the top of the window frame and the headlights from the occasional traffic flickered over the smooth plaster, creating shadows and flashing gleams as they passed by.

"He's like me, isn't he?" he asked her softly. Ellie curled her arm closer around him.

"Hopefully not just like you, one's enough," she murmured against his skin.

He snorted softly. "Who taught him all that crap? Saving people and making a difference?"

He heard her low laugh. "It's not crap, and you know it. And I guess he picked it up the same way you did, surrounded by hunters who needed to justify themselves and what they did, make themselves feel okay about it."

She lifted her head, shifting to one elbow to look at his face. "It's not safe, and it's not stable, but it's not the worst way to live your life, thinking about others instead just about yourself."

His brows drew together. "It's a good way to die young."

"A lot of people die young just because they take risks and chances that a young hunter never would," she said, leaning close to him. "Get some perspective, there are a lot of ways to die in this world. And hopefully Carl will get some pointers from more experienced hunters as to the things not to do."

He looked into her eyes, shadowy and dark. "Just because you're right all the time, doesn't mean I have to like it."

She grinned at him, brushing her lips over his. "You know, even if he turned out exactly like you, that wouldn't be a bad thing. You haven't turned out too badly at all."

His breath caught as she dragged her teeth over his chest. "In fact, a lot of people think you're damned nice to have around."

"Nice?" He closed his eyes as her lips moved softly over his stomach. "Just nice?"

He felt the lift of her cheek at the crease where hip met thigh as she smiled. "Very nice."

"Uh, still not quite … feeling … that appreciation, Ellie," he said, and he arched up involuntarily, his breath sucking in fast a second later.

"Feeling it now?"

He couldn't find a breath free to answer her, his body shaking, trembling under the sensations that formed and spread and broke apart and reformed with what she was doing to him. No matter how much he thought he'd prepared for it, no matter how well he knew what was happening, when she touched him, it all fell apart, and his control dissolved, thoughts scattering like a dropped box of proverbial marbles, reaction and nerve endings and arousal and desire and an aching, building need taking over.

It wasn't a one-way street; he could do it to her just as easily, just as thoroughly. It was more something that they did together, between them, than just one or the other. And every single time, it was stronger, and it somehow bound them together more closely, as if this magic alchemy of biology and chemistry and emotion was reaching into them deeper and deeper, weaving itself tightly into every part of them.

He groaned as her mouth slid up him, and the relative temperature of the air felt like a slap, pulling her up and rolling onto his side, his lips and tongue on hers, hungry and demanding and feeling her open to him, pliant and wanting, wet and hot and tight.

There was a part of him that knew, when he bitched and growled about Fate and the way his family had been torn apart by it, that he never would have found her, never would have had this, if the events of his life hadn't occurred just as they had. She'd have bled out, ten years old and dead with her parents if his father hadn't been hunting the psychic and the elemental created. Or saved by someone else, belonging with someone else, because she'd chosen this life, and hunting was what she did and who she was. He couldn't quite reconcile the two things, losing one thing he'd loved more than anything, gaining another that he couldn't live without.

Hot. Slick. Pressure. Comfort. Sensation. Ache. Thrusting inside, a deep throbbing flex around him, making him cry out with a feeling of every cell glowing, incandescent, a discharge rushing through him, setting his nerves alight. Oscillation. That soft hum, a delicate vibration, tickling almost at first, except that it wasn't a tickle, it was a shifting grip enclosing him, moving faster and faster, punctuated with shockingly powerful spasms that choked him with their intensity. The sound of their breathing, hoarse and raw and desperate, filling the space between them, her hips bucking against his, her fingers tightening over his shoulders, pads flat on his skin, begging him wordlessly. She arches up beneath him, and he can't believe how it feels, swallowing him, squeezing him, no analogies match it, nothing can describe it, but he's in her and with her and a part of her and then every muscle tenses, contracting, drawing up until he's gone, nothing left but feeling and light and heat and a silence that's so loud it hurts him somewhere deep inside.

She was more prosaic about it. It wasn't a choice, she'd told him, not an either/or. If it had gone the other way, if he'd grown up with his family in the normal way, he never would have felt the loss of what might have been. He'd thought about it, growing up like any kid, finding a job, meeting someone (_someone ordinary?_), settling down maybe. Would he have been happy? Or wouldn't he have known the difference? Would it have felt like this did? Or would some part of him have always known that somewhere in the world there was someone he was made for, made to be with and he'd have felt that missing piece his whole life.

Dean shifted his weight to one arm, forehead resting against Ellie's shoulder as his breathing slowed, eased. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, her skin sheened with perspiration, hair damp along her forehead, eyes half-closed as she breathed deeply in and out in time with him. He thought she was extraordinarily beautiful, loved watching her, loved looking at her at any time, but never more so than now, her face sublimely relaxed, all armour and defences utterly abandoned, just herself, warm and her barely open eyes looking at him from under long dark red lashes, soft and filled with the way she loved him.

Maybe he wouldn't have missed this, in another life, not knowing it, never having known it. But he thought that somewhere, he would have known, would've felt it gone.

* * *

"Have you seen this place?" Dean muttered to Carl, lying face down on the rock overhang, binoculars against his eyes.

Ellie had been right. The place was easy to find. The estate was fifty or sixty acres, encompassing an undeveloped tract of land, a deep ravine that ran almost east-west and divided the wealthier suburbs from the town-side. The lavishly scaled and ludicrously pretentious house had been built on the northern side of the ravine facing south, with a long driveway and high security fencing running all the way around the property.

"Saw it on the Lifestyles of the Rich and Shameless, I think," Carl lifted his pair of glasses and looked through them. "Recognise that pool."

"Cut the chatter, you two," Ellie's voice was surprisingly clear in their earpieces. "Anyone home?"

"Negatory, Red Leader," Dean drawled softly, the throat mike transmitting his words to Ellie who was crouched in the line of scrubby brush on the edge of the estate a half-mile distant from them. "But hold up and wait for my signal to start your run."

"Never gets old, Dean," Ellie said tartly, feeling the trickle of sweat run down her back.

"I know, darlin'." He grinned at Carl, and scanned the glasses across the back of the house. "Wait a minute … Ellie? Wait a minute."

He increased the magnification, bracing the binoculars hard with his elbows to counteract the shimmy from the higher resolution and stared at the vegetation that ran alongside the patio and around the pool.

"Carl, get the tripod and the scope," he breathed softly. He couldn't increase the magnification on the binoculars any further and he wanted to be damned sure of what he was seeing before he let Ellie get any closer to the house.

He blinked as he let the glasses drop, his eyes crossing slightly as they came back to normal vision, and set up the tripod and high mag scope quickly. The house leapt into view, as if he were standing next to the pool, and he panned the scope very slowly around the garden, looking at the wilted and dried up shrubs and grass, the blackened young trees and flowers.

"Crap. Ellie, get out of there."

"Why? What is it?" She turned her head to look in his direction, and he saw her lift one hand slightly.

"Uh, Dean, I gotta car coming up the driveway, white Merc E-class Cabriolet, two people in the front seats," Carl said softly beside him.

"Shit!" He moved the scope past Ellie, looking at the drive, following the car around the curve. "Ellie, fade back now, repeat, get out of there now. I know these two, we need a different approach."

He watched as she slid backwards down the slope, away from the house, not raising so much as a puff of dust from the dry ground she moved over. Panning back to the car, he watched as the couple got out, mouths moving as they spoke. He saw the way the woman's brows drew together suddenly as she said something to the man, then they'd moved past the corner of the house, and out of his view. He looked back to the slope, and Ellie had vanished too, down into the gully that lay to the north-west of the estate.

A sheen of sweat covered his forehead and he wiped it away with one hand, swallowing and leaning on one elbow.

"What happened?" Carl looked at him worriedly.

"Bad news," Dean said. Sam hadn't gotten back to him on the coin but he already knew what his brother would find. Something from the fifteenth century, possibly a ducat as the others had been, although he didn't recognise the design on it, so maybe a different type. _Sonofabitch_.

"Pack it up, Carl, we're going as soon as Ellie shows," he said tersely, rolling over to look down the broad, twisting gully for any sign of her below. Behind him, he heard Carl pick up their gear, packing it away into the canvas duffle, the muffled click of metal and plastic against each other as he lifted the bag and carried it back to the car.

Five minutes later, he saw her climbing up the steep trail, fatigues darkened with sweat. She looked up and took his hand, climbing out and over the lip of the overhang, the small pack bouncing on her back. Under the cover of the shadows of the small trees a few feet back, she sat down and took the bottle of water he offered, swallowing half of it in great gulps.

"Okay," she said quietly. "What's the problem?"

"I know them. We ran into them, in Indiana, the chicken feet," he said, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead. Ellie's eyes narrowed.

"The witch who put the levi out of action?"

"Yeah."

She nodded slowly. "That, well, that explains a lot."

"Yeah, it fits." He leaned back against the slim trunk behind him. "What now?"

Ellie got up, finishing the water. "Plan B."

"Do we have one?" He looked at her. She gave him a wry one-sided grin.

"Not yet."

* * *

"These two are powerful, they just about destroyed that little town between them and that was just some kind of marriage problem!" Dean said loudly, reaching into the fridge for the beer. He took out two bottles and passed one to Carl.

Ellie came out of the bathroom, drying her hair. "Well, we can't just leave them to it here. Especially if they've got a grudge against you as well."

Dean scowled. "More her than him."

"Either way. Did Sam keep the spell that Bobby found to kill them?" She sat down at the table, dropping the towel over the back of the chair, and combing out her hair.

"Yeah, it's in the journal." He looked at her. "It didn't work the last time."

"Mmmm … the chicken feet have to be kept chilled."

"Whatever. How do we know it'll work this time?" He swallowed a mouthful of beer.

"Only game in town," she said, looking up at him. "It's either that or we try to appeal to their better natures to stop harassing people."

"Is that what they're doing?" Carl frowned. "I mean, the guy jumped out of a plane, he could've been killed."

Ellie nodded, taking the bottle that Dean passed her distractedly. "Yeah."

Dean watched her open the bottle, seeing the little crease between her brows. "What?"

"That was just chance. That he survived. That his girlfriend did," she said slowly. "And the other one. He could have been harbouring Bundy-type tendencies, but he wasn't."

"And?"

"And the man who runs the Smoke Crystal said that the spells were only to be sold to certain people." She tipped the bottle up, taking a mouthful as she looked up at him. "Which sounds to me as if there was a point –"

"Bait?" Dean asked, following her line of thought. "For hunters? Well, that's not freakin' reassuring!"

"No."

Carl looked at them. "This witch was trying to get us here?"

Ellie lifted a shoulder slightly. "Maybe not us specifically."

"Or maybe me, specifically." Dean leaned back against the counter. "Unfinished business."

"It's been years, Dean," Ellie said reasonably. "I'll admit, you _are_ unforgettable, but these two have managed to survive a long time and I'm not sure they would've if she was that hell-bent on getting revenge."

He looked away. "Yeah, I guess."

Carl looked at the window as the faint sound from outside registered. "Uh, guys?"

"What?"

"We have company," the young man said, getting up. The knock on the door was peremptory. He walked across the room and opened it.

The woman who entered was tall, but the four-inch heels took her to almost six feet. She was slender and tanned, hair immaculately styled in a long, layered cut that framed her face, her simple sleeveless suit a shade of coral that made a warm foil to her skin and eyes. She looked around the room, not bothering to hide her distaste. Behind her, the man was also tall, lean and tanned, the pale brushed silk of his jacket and pants looking both expensive and casual.

"Don. Maggie," Dean straightened up, putting his beer on the counter behind him.

"I can't say it's a pleasure seeing you again," Maggie looked at him coldly. "But we thought it was a good opportunity to catch up."

Ellie stood up, holding out her hand to the witch. "Marquessa Marguerite _del_ Carmen Matheu-Arias-Davila _y_ Carondolet, isn't it?"

Maggie's eyes widened almost comically. "How did you –"

She took Ellie's hand automatically, as Ellie looked past her. "And you must be Count Stephan Szálláspataki."

"Just Don these days, no one can get their tongues around the old names," Don leaned past Maggie and shook Ellie's hand. "You have been doing your homework."

He glanced at Dean who was staring at Ellie with the same wide-eyed look as Maggie.

"Your exploits have been quite well-documented, in some centuries, at least. I did my dissertation on notable witches of the sixteenth century," Ellie said, smiling and gesturing graciously to the small table. "I'm surprised you came to the US."

"Ah well, Europe hasn't been much fun since all the revolutions," Don said, ushering Maggie past Dean to the table. "And with all the nouveau riche, just being wealthy isn't enough these days."

"How vexing," Ellie said, without a trace of irony in her voice. Don looked at her and the corner of his mouth tucked in. "What brings you to Santa Barbara?"

"We're on vacation," Don smiled at Maggie, taking her hand as they sat down. "Sun, sea –"

"A few people almost killed," Dean interjected. "Or was that to get our attention?"

Maggie turned to look at him. "You tried to kill me."

"You tried to kill everyone in Prosperity," Dean retorted.

"Now, now," Don said soothingly, patting his wife's hand. "I'm sure we're all past that, it was a long time ago."

Maggie glared at Dean. He looked back at her coldly.

Ellie drew in a breath. "Kind of a busman's holiday for you, isn't it?"

"It wasn't us," Don continued. "It started about six weeks after we arrived, and we've been trying to find the witch responsible ever since."

Dean made a noise in the back of his throat. Ellie shot a look at him and he looked away.

"I can understand your disinclination to believe it, but it's true." Don sighed and looked at Maggie.

"And we're supposed to believe that you haven't been able to find whoever's doing this in the last eight weeks?" Dean crossed his arms over his chest and looked disbelievingly at Don. "Come on."

"There are a few possibilities. We haven't been able to narrow it down to a single certainty."

"And we're here on vacation," Maggie spat. "Supposed to be here on vacation to get our probl–"

"I don't think they need all the details, sweetheart," Don cut her off smoothly. "There's a man who turned up at the end of July, a woman whom I'm sure I recognise from 1586 –"

"And I'm sure I don't want the details of that!" Maggie snapped.

"And there's a woman working for the newspaper who is definitely not kosher," Don continued, flicking a patient look at Maggie.

Dean looked at Ellie. She shrugged. "What did you have in mind?"

"We're having a small soirée this evening, at our place. Just a few of the locals, and we'd like you to come. We could share the information we have and possibly figure this out together."

"Wow, walking deliberately into the lion's den – who could resist an invitation like that?" Dean looked at him sourly.

"You have my word that we don't want to harm you and that we won't let anyone else harm you," Don said, raising his hands pacifically. "We just want to get rid of this witch before she or he brings some real publicity to this place and we have cancel our rental."

"'Cause that would put a damper on your vacation?"

"Do you know how long it's been since we had a real honeymoon?" Maggie got up and stalked over to Dean. "Three hundred years. So don't even think of getting snarky in front of me about it."

Dean leaned back slightly as she crowded into his space. Don stood up and slid his arm through hers, drawing her away gently.

"Eight o'clock, I think you already know the place?" He glanced at Ellie, one brow raised slightly. Ellie nodded. "It's not formal."

"No, feel free to come as you are!" Maggie threw over her shoulder at Dean, her gaze fixed on the stained t-shirt.

Don smiled as he opened the door and Maggie walked out. "She's been kind of tense the last couple of years. We need your help, we're too close to the community here to see it clearly right now. It's not a trap."

He closed the door behind him. Carl swivelled in his chair to look at Ellie and Dean.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"It's a trap," Dean said, picking up his beer and looking at Ellie. She shrugged.

"It might be, although they were here, if they'd wanted to kill us, I can't see why they'd bother to set an elaborate trap to do it. Even if it is, I don't see that we've got a lot of choices here." She stood up, finishing her beer and taking the bottle to the trash can in the kitchenette. "From the sounds of it, there are at least five possibly very powerful witches here. We can't take them all on our own, and getting some intel on what's going on here might be useful."

"What's a swar-ay?" Carl looked at her.

"Evening get-together, in this case," Ellie said distractedly, looking at Dean. "Alright, what do you want to do?"

He looked over his shoulder at her, mouth curling down in defeat. "We'll go. Against my better judgement, for the record, but yeah, I don't see another option."

* * *

The sky still showed traces of light although the sun had set almost an hour ago, disappearing behind the mountains. The sea breeze was cool and laden with salt, giving it a damp feeling. Ellie pulled her jacket closer around herself as they got out of the car on the gravel turnaround in front of the house.

She glanced at Dean, still stubbornly wearing the clothes he'd had on earlier. She'd compromised between comfort and courtesy, the wide-legged black silk pants hiding her knife tucked into the waistband under the jacket, and a beaded black silk top giving the illusion of elegance. Carl had put on clean clothes and topped them with a surprisingly attractive coffee-coloured suede jacket.

Don opened the door as they walked up the steps, smiling. "I'm glad you decided to come along."

"Didn't have much of a choice." Dean's lip curled down.

"Well, you're the first to arrive, so come in," Don said, ignoring the tone and stepping back to open the door widely.

Ellie and Carl followed Dean inside, and Don led the way through the marble and frescoed hallway to a massive living room, six sets of French doors opening onto the paved patio, the outside lights shining on the dead foliage and turning the pool into a glowing turquoise octagon.

"You guys really slum it on vacation," Dean said, looking around the room, as Don went to a long cupboard serving as a bar. Several groupings of plush sofas and armchairs were spread throughout the space, a grand piano took up a corner, and a flat screen TV covered most of a wall at the other end.

Don laughed. "Well, we've been used to the finer things of life for a long time. Kind of hard to lower your standards." He gestured at the bottles sitting on the cupboard. "What's your preference?"

Dean shook his head. "Maybe later."

They turned at the click-click of heels tapped across the hard tiled floor, and Maggie came in through a pair of double doors near the piano. She wore a white, off-the-shoulder evening gown, jewellery sparkling at her ears and throat and she looked at Dean narrowly as she approached, her lips thinning as she took in his clothes.

"Glad to see you didn't make an effort," she said, stopping by Don and accepting the martini he held for her.

"This is how I am," Dean said, smiling at her.

"Hon, what time did we give everyone?" Don looked at his watch, then at Maggie, frowning slightly as he watched her fidget with her bracelet.

From the same doorway that Maggie had entered through, two more people walked into the room. Ellie saw Don's face lose its animation as he saw them, his gaze flicking accusingly to his wife.

The man was very tall, broad-shouldered and lean in the hips, his hair long and a dark gold, loose over his shoulders. He wore a long grey leather coat, over a black silk shirt and close-fitting black pants. Beside him, the woman was also tall, pale blonde hair cut into a smooth bob that curved around her face, the long skirt of the dark red leather coat swinging out as she walked, the front buttoned to her neck, tight charcoal pants delineating the length and curves of her legs.

"Well done, Maggie," the man drawled softly, looking at Dean.

Dean looked back at them. The blonde was the reporter, but seeing her beside the man in front of him, he realised what had bothered him about her when they'd met. Like so many of the nephilim, they were almost perfect, lacking the asymmetry of most humans, the flaws and scars and lumps and blemishes that gave every human their own uniqueness.

"Mags?" Don looked from them to his wife, his face expressionless.

Maggie looked away from him, fixing her gaze on Dean. "You saved him, and his brother. In spite of the fact that they tried to kill me, Don."

"It wasn't much of an attempt, sweetheart," Don said softly.

"We haven't met," the tall man stepped toward Dean. "I am Maluch, son of Bezaliel. This is Reuma, daughter of Araquiel."

Dean glanced at Maggie, smiling sourly at her. "Sold me out, that must have made your day."

Don looked from him to Maggie. "We don't deal with angels or their offspring, Mags."

She lifted her chin, looking at him, turning away from Dean. "I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice, Maggie, especially for us!"

She turned away, shrugging. "They want to kill him. It suited me."

Dean laughed. "They don't want to kill me, Maggie; they want to use me to open a door to Heaven."

Maggie looked at the nephilim. "What?"

"It's true, Maggie," Ellie walked to her, watching the two over her shoulder. "They want to start the Second War."

Carl watched Ellie move between the witches and the tall man and woman, and began to move closer to Dean. He tried to remember what Ellie had told him about them, the half-breed children of angels, more powerful than a man, able to survive every injury unless their hearts were cut from their chests.

Maluch's eyes had narrowed thoughtfully at Ellie's words and he turned to watch her pass. "And what would you know of what we want?"

Ellie stopped next to Maggie, looking back at him. "Your father told us all about it. The circle and the nine and the way back in. The sacrifice of the children to prevent Lucifer from ever being able to regain Heaven's halls." She kept her gaze on him. "And the key to the circle that he and Baraquiel destroyed."

The words hung in the silence for a moment, and Dean realised that she'd drawn their attention from him deliberately.

The nephilim moved fast, reaching out for her, and everyone scattered. Don's voice deepened as he lifted his hand and the power went out, darkness filling the house, the pale moonlight spilling through the glass-paned doors throwing everything into stark black and white. Maggie grabbed Ellie and pulled her behind Don as Maluch's hand swept where she'd been. Carl pulled out his gun and fired at Reuma, the .45 calibre bullet hitting her in the back of the shoulder and sending her flying to the hard floor, as Dean fired at Maluch, his 9mm punching through the nephilim's back and grazing Don's ribs on exiting.

The nephilim lay on the floor, and Carl lowered his gun, looking over at Dean.

"Maggie, the banishing spell?" Don looked at his wife. Maggie shook her head.

"It's upstairs, I didn't think – I summoned them, I didn't think –"

"Get it, sweetheart – now," Don looked down as Reuma moved her arm. "Hurry!"

Ellie pulled her knife, walking fast to the blonde on the floor. She gripped Reuma's shoulder and rolled her onto her back, seeing the big exit wound from Carl's bullet above the woman's breast. Driving the knife in through the ribs to the left of it, she levered the length of the blade against the ribs, breaking two and pulling them away from the breastbone, the knife tip driving into the chest, slicing through the blood vessels. She didn't see the blue eyes open wide. Reuma sat up, gripping Ellie's hand in hers and threw her back, the knife falling to the floor, blood spilling from the ragged hole, soaking through the leather of her coat.

Ellie hit the French doors, splintering through one with the force of the throw and rolling across the patio. She put her hand down, and sucked in a breath as a bolt of pain shot up her arm. She looked at the long shard of glass in her palm, pulling it out and rolling onto her knees as Carl's gun boomed inside the room, two shots in quick succession.

"Carl! The guy!"

She heard Dean's yell and another two shots, forcing herself to her feet, looking up as a shadow burst from through the broken door in front of her. Maluch hit her head-on, his weight and speed knocking them both down the broad, shallow steps that led from the patio to the pool, landing on the stone-paved surround.

"Shit! Wait! Don't shoot, Ellie's down there!"

Ellie rolled to her side, gritting her teeth as the aches of the two successive impacts made themselves felt. Ribs, hip and wrist were throbbing and her head hurt, she realised, opening her eyes and seeing shining flecks filling her vision.

A hand fisted in the back of her clothes, hauling her upright, and she choked back a scream as her injured wrist knocked against the nephilim behind her, his arm curling around her throat as he held her in front of him.

He was cutting off her air, and she tried to drop, her weight pulling his grip for a second before he tightened it, a rib flexing under the increased pressure. She kicked backward, her heel hitting the inside of the nephilim's knee. He yanked her backwards, and she drove her elbow back, feeling it skate off his chest as he turned slightly.

_Running out of options_, she thought, struggling to get in another breath. He was too big, too strong, and she couldn't use one hand. She twisted as he dragged her to one side, catching a glimpse of the low parapet wall that divided the pool from the hillside from the corner of her eye. Could she push him into it? She pushed her feet down against him and felt him stagger backwards.

She could see two figures on the steps, indistinct in the moonlight, coming slowly toward them.

"Let her go, Maluch, I'll come along quiet," Dean's voice carried on the damp air. "Just let her go."

"Let her go?!" She heard the anger in the voice behind her, rumbling in the chest against her back. "I'll let her go, Winchester."

The nephilim shifted his grip and Ellie reached out with her hand to grab his coat as she was swung over his head. Her fingers scrabbled along the slick leather, and then she was free, and falling, hearing gunshots and shouting, seeing the wall and the figures behind it getting smaller, further away, and she remembered how the ground dropped here, down the edge of the ravine, and twisted herself in the air, trying to see into the darkness under her. She felt her foot catch something and she somersaulted, head snapping against a tree branch, the momentum catapulting her into the slope.

* * *

Dean watched as Maluch threw Ellie over the wall and into the darkness, and he was firing, the muzzle flash and the roar of the gun blinding and deafening him, slowing his movement forward. He threw an arm across his face as a brilliant blue light exploded in front of him, distantly hearing Carl's yell of frustration behind him, then the poolside lights came on and he stopped, seeing blood on the stone pavers but no body. He half-turned to look back up at the house, blazing now with light, Carl on the patio, Don and Maggie standing close to him.

_Ellie_. He ran to the wall and looked down, seeing the drop, the line of trees fifty yards below, hearing the silence in that space. He thumbed the safety and shoved the automatic into his pocket, feeling for the smooth cylinder of his flashlight and pulling it out. The small beam flashed back and forth under the wall, showing the steep drop, the rocky slope and he vaulted over the low wall, leaning back as he slid down, trying to brace himself, hand grabbing at whatever it touched to slow his descent down into the dark.

He caught a sapling as he came to the thin line of small trees, flashlight playing over the hillside, seeing broken branches ahead of him. He had to inch down the slope as it fell away again, boots feeling for solid footing, his heart slamming against his chest as he looked at the jumble of rocks below him.

The flashlight's beam swept from side to side as he searched, then lit up a patch of colour against the dark rocks fifteen feet below him. Bright, copper-coloured hair. Holding the beam steady, Dean scrambled down the last few feet, slowing slightly as the light revealed her, sprawled across the rock, still and broken.

He crouched beside her, fingers resting against her neck, feeling the slow pulse there. In the bright light of his flashlight, the blood was very red, spilled around her, a lot of it, but he couldn't see where it was coming from. He was afraid to move her, even to lift her to free the arm he could see was bent under her, afraid that he would make it worse, that the injuries were inside, where he couldn't see them. Her face was raked with cuts, one long gaping wound disappearing into her hair, her face swelling around them. He could see blood in her hair, a sticky mess at the back of her head, and the black fabric of her top and pants were slick and shiny with it. He leaned over her, pressing his ear to one side of her ribs, listening to her breath slipping in and out, relieved to hear no bubbling, no gurgling rush of liquid in her lungs. Looking down at her forearm and hand, he could see the cuts and scrapes, swelling and tears and thought she might have had her arms and hands over her head when she'd landed, trying to protect herself.

"Dean!" Carl's voice was just above him. "Don't move her!"

He nodded, shifting the flashlight so that the light pointed down at her as Carl skidded down the final drop to them, a big hard case in one hand. In the reflected light, he saw Carl's face, wide-eyed and taut with worry as he knelt beside Ellie.

"I called rescue and an ambulance, they're on their way," he said, looking down, his big hands moving very lightly over her, following his gaze. "They're sending a helicopter to get her out."

"I can't tell where the blood is coming from," Dean said tightly.

Carl nodded, looking closely at her. "On three, we're going to lift her shoulders, just a little so I can free her arm, alright?"

They lifted together, and Carl drew out Ellie's arm gently, grimacing as he saw the multiple breaks. "Okay. Let her down."

"She's going to be fine, right?" Dean looked down.

"Her pulse is steady, she's breathing," Carl looked at him. "That's good."

* * *

Dean sat in the waiting room. The helicopter had come and brought her here. He and Carl had had to follow in the car. Don and Maggie had dealt with the police. Ellie had already been in surgery when they'd arrived at the hospital, no doctor available to tell them how she was, what was going on, just a nurse who'd led them to the waiting room and told them to wait.

Carl sat next to him, and he saw the frequent glances the young man kept shooting at him, but ignored them. He felt numb and disconnected from everything, waiting, here in the waiting room.

Deep inside of him there was an ocean of pain. But it couldn't come out, couldn't get past the control that held it back and down tightly. Not here. Not out in the open like this. The nurse had rattled off a list of injuries when she'd brought them here. Broken wrist. Broken fingers. Broken tibia. Broken femur. Cracked pelvis. Fractured skull. Fractured jaw. Dislocated shoulder. Contusions. Ruptured liver. Bruised spleen. He couldn't connect the list to Ellie. Couldn't connect anything.

"Mr Winchester?" The nurse stood in front of him and he looked up.

"Your wife is out of surgery. She'll be taken to ICU and will have to remain there until the surgeons can establish if more operations are going to be needed." She gestured to the hall. "If you come with me, I can let you see her in a few minutes."

He stared at her blankly then nodded, getting up. Beside him, Carl got up as well, and the nurse turned to look at him.

"I'm sorry, sir. Only family are allowed."

Dean stopped and looked back at Carl. "He is family."

The nurse looked from him to Carl, then nodded, turning for the elevators.

* * *

"The breaks aren't a problem, and we were more worried about the brain and the internal injuries," the young doctor said to him, standing beside the raised bed. Dean could hear him talking but he couldn't take in what the man was saying. He could hardly see Ellie through the tangle of tubes and wires that connected her to the banks of machines surrounding the bed.

"We've relieved the pressure on the brain, and we've done what we can at this time for her liver and spleen. When she was brought in, we didn't know about the pregnancy. The rupture of the uterus and subsequent placental abruption was the cause of massive blood loss and shock to her body." He paused, looking at the man who was standing in front of him, staring at the woman on the bed. "Mr Winchester?"

"Yeah." Dean dragged his gaze to the doctor's face.

"I want you to understand that she's not stable at this time. That kind of traumatic shock … sometimes we see after-effects within the first seventy two hours of being brought in," he said hesitantly. "Mortality of the mother in this kind of situation – you need to be prepared."

Dean felt the words sinking in slowly. He licked his lips as he looked back at Ellie. "You mean she could still die."

"Yes. I'm sorry," the doctor looked at him. "I'll be here, if you have any questions."

He had questions, a lot of questions. But he knew the answers to all of them. He heard the squeak of the doctor's rubber-soled shoes on the linoleum, moving away from him. There was a chair next to the bed, and he sat down in it, resting his hand next to hers, careful not to touch the tubes and wires and dressings, his fingertips touching the small amount of bare skin that was visible.

Around him, the machines were beeping or humming or sighing softly, pumping blood into her, and oxygen, nutrients and antibiotics and sedatives and anti-inflammatories. She was strong, she would be fighting to stay alive, he knew. All that blood. Now he knew where it had come from.

They'd shaved her head, and he could see the bruises and the cuts over her scalp, fine black stitches and vivid purple and grey lines with bone-white centres. The dirt and blood had been washed from her, but he could still see a fine line of it under her fingernails, where she'd scraped them in the earth of the hill, trying to stop herself from falling further.

Under the pallor, there was a grey tinge to her skin, like a shadow lying under the surface. Her lashes lay still against her cheeks, dark red, a little darker than her brows. The scattering of pale freckles stood out over her nose and across her cheeks, but the bruising would hide them soon.

The smell of herbs, of wax and incense, so completely foreign to the smells surrounding him, hit him and he turned in the chair, rising to his feet as Don and Maggie followed Carl into the unit.

"Get out," Dean grated, his eyes narrowing on Maggie, filled with a hatred that burned through him.

Don stopped in front of him. "I know how you feel, but –"

"No, you don't know how I feel, Don," he took a step toward the witch. "You don't have the faintest fucking idea of how I feel."

"We're here to help her, Dean," Maggie said softly. "I'm sorry –"

"You're what? Sorry?" He dragged in a breath, fists clenched by his sides. "You're sorry that you called the firstborn and she –" He looked back at Ellie, swallowing convulsively as he forced out the words. "– she was the one who got hurt, sorry that she might die because of your fucking arrogance?"

"I didn't –"

"Dean. We don't have much time. Let us do what we can to heal her." Don cut in between them. "She could die. Do you want that?"

No. He didn't want that. He could feel that ocean of pain lapping at the edge of his control, threatening to break through.

"Can you give her back our child?" he asked Don softly, and watched the other man close his eyes, turning his head away.

"Dean, come on, let them do this," Carl walked forward, hand curling around Dean's arm and pulling him away from the bed. "Please."

He let himself be drawn to one side, the desire to put a bullet in Maggie's head held back again. They were powerful. Maybe they could do something. He couldn't take the risk of not letting them do whatever they could.

The two witches worked fast, Maggie drawing the circles and Don mixing the herbs and oils, making the sigils over Ellie's skin. The room seemed to shimmer as they chanted together, the words almost indistinguishable, the circles and sigils and patterns lighting up as power was drawn and directed through them into Ellie.

Dean watched the monitors, his head and chest and throat aching from the efforts of holding everything back, from the white-knuckled control he was holding over himself. In the bluish reflected light from the circles he watched Don's face, still and almost peaceful, not knowing what the witch was doing, exactly. The witch's face was beaded with perspiration.

The light of the circles died away and he started slightly, feeling as if he'd been in a dream, unsure of what had happened. He walked closer to the bed as Don and Maggie removed all traces of the circles and the sigils that had marked Ellie.

Don turned to look at him. "We've repaired the damage. We can't do too much too quickly because the physical body can't cope with it, but the healing process has been accelerated and the effects of the shock have been dealt with – she won't die, and she'll heal up fast now."

Dean looked at Ellie's face. The grey shadow under her skin had gone. He looked back at Don.

"This doesn't wipe out what she did," he said. Don nodded.

"I know."

"What happened to Maluch and Reuma?"

"We banished them, sent them back to their homeland." Don looked around the room. "We've kept out of most of the instances of this kind of thing for hundreds of years. But we have contacts, and if we find anything to help you with them, we'll pass it along." He looked back at Dean. "I'm sorry. I gave you my word, and – I'm sorry."

Dean turned back to the bed, hearing the low murmur of Carl's voice, of Don's, fading away as they left the room. He sat down in the chair, glancing up at the monitors, his hand slipping under Ellie's fingers.

* * *

_**Three weeks later. St Theresa's Hospital, Santa Barbara.**_

The small room was dim, the curtains drawn across the windows. Dean came in quietly, closing the door behind him, and walking to the bed. Ellie lay on her side, hands tucked under her chin. The dressings had gone, the casts on her arm and leg still there. Her hair was growing back, a short pixie cut now, barely framing her face, making her eyes look huge. He looked at the darker damp patches on the pillow and the sheets under her head.

"Hey." He sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"Hey," she said, her gaze flickering to him for a second before she looked back at the wall in front of her.

He didn't know what to do. She was healing, as fast as Don had promised, astounding and bewildering the doctors. Another few days and she could come home. But it wasn't Ellie lying on the bed. Not all of her, at least. She hadn't smiled once. She barely looked at him, barely acknowledged what he said to her, her fingers would lie limply in his if he took her hand. She was grieving, he knew that. For the child that would never be. He understood that. He didn't know how to reach her through it.

"Doc says you can come home in a couple of days," he said. She didn't move.

He tried again. "John and Rosie really want to see you."

Ellie closed her eyes briefly, then tilted her head to look at him. "Maybe that's not such a great idea right now, Dean. I was thinking – I was thinking I would go and spend some time with Tanya."

"What?" He looked at her, brows drawing together. "No. No."

"I'm not … I can't …" She closed her eyes and he watched the tears squeezing out from between her lashes, his heart twisting in his chest.

_Don't let her shut you out, don't let her get so overwhelmed by her loss that she forgets everything else_. Maggie had said it to him, just before they'd left. He hadn't understood it at the time, but he wondered now if she'd been speaking from experience.

"No, you're not. You have people who love you, Ellie, who need you right here," he said, voice thickening. "I have a mountain of pain that I nearly lost you, but I'm not gonna give in to it – god, you taught me that. Ellie – you are not bailing out on us."

He saw her draw in a fast breath, her eyes opening, shimmering in the half-light but looking at him this time.

"I'm no use to anyone like this, Dean. I'm all broken inside!"

It was anger but that was okay, anything other than the blank expressions and searing pain was a step forward, he thought.

"It'll heal. You'll heal, with us," he leaned forward, pulling her hand toward him, enclosing it both of his. "You have two kids who are pining for you, heartbroken that they can't see you, Ellie. You have me, you can't just give up and wallow in this, we need you, we want you back."

"I don't know how to come back." Her voice was less than a whisper.

"You do, you just don't want to come back," he said, a thin thread of anger hardening his words. He didn't want to be the one goading her back to life, why the hell did it have to be him, pushing at her pain? _Because you're the only one who can_, the small voice in his head said prosaically. _The only one who will, the only one she'll listen to_.

Ellie closed her eyes again, turning her head back into the pillow.

"Ellie, dammit, open your eyes and look at me," he moved forward, leaning close to her. "Don't you love us, me and John and Rosie? You want us to disappear so you don't have to think about what's real and you can lie there until you die from sorrow?"

He thought suddenly of all the times, all the conversations and the outright fights they'd had, when she'd been pushing at him, pushing to make him see what was real, pushing to make him acknowledge his fear and doubt and anger and guilt and shame. How had she done that? How had she looked inside of him and seen what the problem was, all the things he'd done to cover it up, to hide it away. He stared at her fixedly.

"You never let me give up, Ellie. I'm not going to let you get away with it."

She mumbled something into the pillow and he frowned. "What?"

"I shouldn't have been there," she said again, and he felt his eyes widen as he heard the guilt in the words. He shifted forward, leaning on the edge of the bed, his forehead against hers.

"Maybe not. We didn't know that, didn't know what was going to happen," he said softly against her cheek. "Ellie, it wasn't your fault, what happened, you weren't even in the fight –"

Her lashes fluttered across his skin as she closed her eyes tightly. "I should've known, something always happens. I want to do the jobs, but I should've been thinking about protecting my child, about not getting into a situation that could go bad, that could – I should've known, Dean, I shouldn't've been there, should've been home, should've been doing my real job –" She sucked in a deep breath, and she was shaking with the force of the feelings that filled her. He slid his arm under her neck, curling it around her, at a loss to know what to say to that. It wasn't true and he thought she knew that, somewhere inside. But what is true and what feels true sometimes gets confused.

"Ellie, if this is anyone's fault, it's mine," he whispered to her. "The nephilim were after me, Maggie hated me, it had nothing to do with you."

"She warned me," Ellie said, opening her eyes and looking into his. "She said there would be a blessing and a tragedy."

He looked at her. "Who warned you?"

"The Roma, Jofranka, in Georgia." She shivered in his arms. "She said that I would be strong enough. But … I don't think I am."

He closed his eyes. "You are, Ellie. _We_ are, together, we are."

* * *

**END**


	12. Chapter 12 Early in the Morning

**Chapter 12 Early in the Morning**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Sam looked up as Tricia walked into the kitchen, and felt Adrienne's fingers close around his hand, pulling at it to drag the spoon to her mouth. He looked down at his youngest daughter with a smile as she slurped the pureed chicken and pumpkin off the baby spoon. He was pretty sure she had her uncle's food appreciation genes.

"How's Ellie doing?" He loaded the spoon again and offered it to Adrienne, who opened her mouth wide.

Tricia shook her head slightly, putting the brown paper sack of groceries down on the counter. "She's better. Sort of."

Sam looked down at the bowl in front of him, scooping another mouthful from it into the spoon. What had happened in Santa Barbara had brought everyone down. Whether they realised it or not, admitted it or not, Ellie and Dean were at the centre of their close-knit community and their pain was felt and worried about by every hunter, every Watcher and nephilim living here. He'd seen his sister-in-law a week ago, before another hunt had taken him out of state. The casts had just been cut off and he'd been shocked at the changes in her, the physical changes and the emotional ones, understanding his brother's fears.

She hadn't really regained the weight she'd lost in the hospital. Her skin was waxy, too pale, almost as if she were anaemic, although he knew that wasn't the case. Her hair, short and spiky, made her look thinner, sharper, and her eyes had been haunted, filled with pain when she'd looked up at him, mouth stretching into a small smile that hadn't gone near any other part of her. She'd been limping around, unwilling or unable to start the long process of regaining her strength and agility, the level of fitness and suppleness that almost defined her physically, a feline grace that had kept her safe on a lifetime of hunts.

"Did you get a chance to talk to her?" He scraped the last of the food from the bowl and gave it to Adrienne, looking up at his wife's face.

"A little," Tricia said, unpacking the last of the groceries and putting them away. "She talks around things, sort of." She looked at him helplessly. "She never used to do that, it was always up front and centre with her, even if she was admitting to her own mistakes, she never hedged around."

"I know," he said, ducking his head to wipe his daughter's mouth. Dean had said it as well, that he didn't know how to talk to her, didn't know how to get her to deal with what had happened. He'd told him that Ellie had felt guilty, about being there, about working, about not protecting the baby, but less than a week later it was as if that conversation had never happened.

Dean had tried everything he could think of. He'd called Francis Monserrat and the monk had flown into the country and stayed with them for several days, talking to Ellie, to no avail. He'd called Laney and asked her about Ellie's close friends, but Laney hadn't known much more than they had, a certain network of people, not all of them. Dean had said that he thought that Kasha might have gotten through, if she'd been alive, but he couldn't find anyone else who had that depth of background with Ellie.

He'd called Cas four days ago, and the angel had speeded the physical healing immediately, but hadn't been able to touch Ellie's emotional state, and the long conversation Cas had had with Ellie had ended up leaving things worse, apparently. Dean had said that the angel had tried to talk to Ellie about God and she'd stormed away from him, locking herself in the basement for two days after the conversation.

"I thought you'd be there longer," Sam said diffidently, picking up Adrienne and carrying her along with the bowl and spoon to the sink. He deposited the dirty dish and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

"So did I," Tricia said, a slight edge to her voice. "She blew me off to go to the dojo and do some training." She smoothed out the empty sack and folded it up. "I think it might have been a mistake to let Cas heal her. If she'd still been physically healing, she might have taken more time to sit and think, instead of trying to exhaust herself getting back into hunting shape."

Sam frowned. "I thought the problem was her feeling guilty about hunting?"

"That's what Dean said, but now it seems like that's what she's planning on doing, getting out in the field again."

They looked at each other, neither willing to say aloud the thought that was in both of their minds. Sam looked away, his face screwing up. If Ellie put herself at risk, and something happened, it would kill his brother.

"What did she say to you?"

Tricia shrugged. "A lot of it was kind of rambling, from one thing to the next. She said that she wasn't a fit parent." She made a face at the memory of that part of the conversation. "At one point, she was talking about not feeling whole anymore, not herself anymore. She said that she didn't deserve anything that she had. I don't know, Sam, she's working her way up to something, but I couldn't get through to her at all."

"How was she with John and Rosie?" he asked, handing Adrienne to her as she held out her arms for the baby.

"Good. A little bit distant here and there, but warmer with them than with anyone else." Tricia looked at Sam worriedly. "She doesn't go near Dean."

"I know."

"He doesn't do anything about it, Sam," she said, her frustration evident in her tone. "Just acts like he deserves it. I wanted to slap her when I saw it, wanted to slap both of them."

Sam's mouth twitched into a rueful smile. "Yeah, I know that feeling."

They walked out of the kitchen, and upstairs, Tricia settling Adrienne for a sleep, Sam leaning against the doorway, watching her in silence. When the door was closed, he followed her downstairs again, going out to the raised deck at the back of the house, hearing the shrieks of Marc and Laura somewhere in the big garden. He leaned against the porch rail as Tricia sat on the bench swing.

"He does feel like he deserves it, Trish," Sam said quietly. "It's not rational, but he's got it in his head that the nephilim are after him, and Maggie wanted revenge on him, and so it's his fault that it all happened."

"What?!" She scowled at the floor. "God, what a mess."

"Yeah." Sam looked out over the valley. "They need to get clear with each other, somehow. And they used to be able to do it easily, at least when one of them was hanging onto reality."

"Well, you'll have to talk to him again, Sam, because Ellie is definitely not interested in talking to anyone."

Sam's forehead creased. "You asked her about it?"

He was surprised. Ellie could strip paint from the walls with invective if she was feeling uncharitable, and he wouldn't have had the desire to get into that conversation with her. Tricia's answering smile was a little bitter.

"She was relatively gentle with me. Told me not to be ridiculous, she wasn't doing anything to Dean and they were both fine," she said.

Sam sighed. They really were a lot alike, Ellie and his brother. Tricia was right, he'd have to talk to Dean about it. He glanced at his watch.

"Was Dean still at home when you left?"

She nodded. "Sam, I was thinking … it might be the only way they're going to deal with this is if they're forced to spend time together, alone."

He looked at her, thinking about it. "Yeah, but how do we organise that?"

"We could take the kids, maybe go down to San Diego for a few days over Thanksgiving?"

The holiday was next weekend. It wouldn't seem contrived, they'd taken John and Rosie along on a lot of their getaway weekends, to the beach or the cities when they had the hankering to go. He nodded.

"Yeah, that's a good idea." He straightened up and walked to her, cupping her face in his hands as he kissed her. "A great idea. I'll go talk to him."

* * *

Dean handed Sam a beer and they wandered out to the porch, sitting down in the big plantation chairs. Sam thought that he looked worse, if anything, than he had a few days ago. He looked like he had in 2011, he realised, when worry and doubt had been eating at him and Ellie had been gone.

"How're you doing?" He looked back out over the valley, tipping his bottle up, hearing his brother's deep exhale.

"On a scale from one to ten, I'd say about minus fifty," Dean said, swallowing a mouthful from his bottle.

"That good, huh?"

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over his forehead tiredly. "I don't know what I'm doing, man."

Sam hid his surprise at his brother's honesty. In the last six years, they'd gotten closer, much closer in some ways than they'd been since they were little kids. But even so, Dean hadn't ever been open about what was going on with him, had always had to have it pulled from him, through careful questioning, or provocation.

"I thought you were working through this stuff with Ellie?" he asked, carefully.

"So did I. But it's not working," he said shortly, turning to look at Sam. "I thought it was just guilt, you know, just wrong place, wrong time stuff. It doesn't seem that way now. I don't know – she says it was bad luck, no one's fault, just bad … everything – but she doesn't look at me anymore –" His voice cracked slightly and he stopped, looking away, drinking another mouthful of beer. Sam watched him, his chest tightening.

It had taken him a long time to remember what he'd known as a child, the depths of his brother and how vulnerable he was. He didn't know why he hadn't seen it more clearly when they'd been hunting together; too wrapped up in his own anguish and concerns and issues, he'd guessed. He'd seen it from time to time, and each time it had come as a kind of surprise, that his hard-case brother felt so deeply, could be wounded so easily. It hadn't really been until Dean had screwed up his relationship with Ellie and very nearly lost her completely that the memories of his childhood and the man he'd spent nearly every day with for seven years had come together, meshing into the person he knew now. And it hadn't been until he'd pushed the spear into Lucifer's heart, and felt his old anger, the old demon anger, maybe, burning out along his veins and arteries and soul, that he'd begun to see how much he loved and needed his older brother, how their past had given them a bond that nothing could really touch or break or destroy.

Dean had fallen in love once. Just the once, and forever. And he would – he _was_ – dying slowly being cut off from that, forced into pretending that everything was fine when absolutely nothing was, when the woman he'd given all of himself to was distancing herself further and further from him.

"You can't let her shut you out, dude," he said softly now. "You can't let her run this show like it's only how she feels that's at stake."

Dean shook his head. "She's not doing it deliberately, Sam. She's struggling."

"I know, I know that." Sam looked at him. "But it doesn't change what's happening, doesn't change what it's doing to you."

"I'm – I can deal with it." He looked down at the bottle in his hands. "For as long as it takes."

"No, you can't." He glanced east, seeing the roof of the building they used for training over the rail and behind the trees. "You can't because it's not going to stay the same or get better, it's going to get worse, going to get harder the longer you two pretend that everything's alright."

"Sam," Dean hesitated, looking at the floor. "The doctor told her that she can't have more kids."

"Oh … man, I'm sorry." Sam looked at his brother's profile. "How are you with that?"

He shook his head. "I'm … actually, you know, I'm okay with it." He looked around, gesturing vaguely. "This was … I didn't think of any of this, I didn't think I'd get any of this, it's like a bonus. I know you like a big family, want a big family, you and Trish, but I'm really okay with my family the way it is." He smiled, a little wryly. "I didn't even think I'd get Ellie, you know, and I just – she, uh … she took it harder than I thought she would."

Sam chewed on the side of his lip, looking out at the garden beyond the railing. "What do you mean?"

"When … uh, when we found out about the baby ..." he said slowly, "... it was kind of a shock, we weren't trying or anything. Took us both a while to figure out how we felt about it." He closed his eyes. "Losing him … uh, that was … we had a name … and, I guess, I could understand her feeling, how she felt about that."

Sam listened to the emotions that lay beneath his brother's struggles to find the words. He could see Dean's throat working as he tried to keep the feelings down. He looked away as he ran a hand over his face, stopping to swallow a mouthful of beer, his head turning away for a moment as he took in a deep breath.

"It wasn't like we would have … I don't know … I didn't think she'd want to start trying again, you know?" he said disjointedly. He hadn't thought that she'd wanted any more kids, hadn't thought that not being able to have any more would be more devastating than losing the child they'd so nearly had. "But she started to pull away and I …"

"Maybe she didn't know what she wanted, until she couldn't have it?" Sam said gently.

Dean looked away, wiping a hand over his eyes again. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Trish said that Ellie's been training again, hard."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

"She wants to start hunting again?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. "She didn't say."

"And if she goes out, and maybe isn't as careful as she usually is, or as well-prepared, or a bit more reckless?"

Dean was silent. Sam chewed on the corner of his lip, waiting for him.

"She wouldn't – no, Sammy, she wouldn't do … anything …" he faltered slightly, then looked at his brother.

"I'm not saying she would do it deliberately. Anymore than what she's doing now is deliberate," he said, very carefully. "I'm just saying that with the way things are now, there's room for error."

He watched Dean set down the bottle on the floor beside him, drop his head into his hands.

"Dean, you have to say something. You have to get through to her."

Looking at the stillness of his brother, the rigidity of his body in the chair, it suddenly dawned on him what Dean was afraid of, why he wasn't pushing back at Ellie as hard as she was pushing him.

"You're afraid she'll leave? If you make it an issue?"

Dean looked up at him, his face drawn and his eyes dark. He didn't say anything, but the expression in his eyes was enough.

"She won't," Sam said, feeling a giddy rush of relief at figuring it out. "She might threaten to, but she won't."

"How do you know that, Sam?"

Sam smiled, shaking his head. "Because she loves you as much as you love her, jerk. Could you leave her?"

He shook his head, uncertainty at his brother's assertion written over his face. "She did leave. Before. And she's different now, Sam."

"No, she's not," Sam said firmly. "She's burying her crap and trying to pretend that none of it matters to her, but it does matter, it's all that matters, nothing's changed. Dean, the thing is that at the moment, both of you are scared to do anything, but one of you has to get objective again, look at what's going on clearly again. And I don't think it's going to be Ellie, she's not dealing with her grief. So it has to be you."

Dean looked away, leaning back in the chair. He would think about it, Sam thought, there was nothing else he could say to speed the process along.

He finished his beer, and got up. "I came over to ask if the kids could come down the coast with us next weekend. Trish wants to get a last beach weekend while the weather holds down at San Diego."

Dean frowned. "Next weekend's Thanksgiving."

"Yeah, but we figured that you guys probably weren't going to do anything for that this year."

"Yeah, I guess not." He stood up, and shrugged. "It's okay with me. I'll check with Ellie and call you later."

"Okay." Sam looked at him. "Seriously, don't let this go any further."

"Yeah." Dean looked unconvinced but at least he was thinking about it now, Sam thought.

* * *

Dean watched Ellie as she went through the evening routine, giving John and Rosie their baths, making dinner, clearing up, reading to them and tucking them into bed. She seemed – almost, not exactly, but almost – comfortable with them, almost the same as she'd always been, cuddling and kissing them and making jokes with them, tickling them to get them to giggle unselfconsciously with her. Her gaze skated over him, when he stood near, or when he was kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, towelling the kids dry, or taking plates from her as she dished out their food, or leaning over to kiss John goodnight. It wasn't that she pretended not to see him, precisely, just that he could've been a piece of furniture, or a part of the wall, there indisputably but not important.

And Sam was right, he realised, that cool and unthinking dismissal was reaching down his throat and ripping out his heart, piece by small piece, every time she did it, whether she meant it or not.

He followed her down the stairs, feeling his palms become clammy at the thought of telling her how he felt. Even at the thought of telling her about Sam's offer, as his imagination fed him previews of how the house would feel with John and Rosie gone, only the two of them there, nothing to bind them together, nothing to stop her from withdrawing from him completely, not seeing him, not acknowledging him at all. At least with the kids there, she talked to him, or near him, at any rate, and answered him when he spoke to her. If they were gone … would she still do that? Or would he disappear completely?

He couldn't understand how they'd gotten to here. In the hospital they'd been stronger, more connected. Then something had changed and he didn't know what it was. They'd been here once before, when he'd withdrawn from her in the pd of his fear. She'd broken through that, forced him through it. Was that the same thing happening now? Was he supposed to break through the walls she'd raised around herself and demand that she make a choice? Sam had said that one of them had to overcome their fear and break through to the other. And that she couldn't, so it had to be him. But fear was gnawing at his guts all day long and he wasn't sure he could ignore it long enough to force the issue.

They slept in the same bed at night, and he'd wondered how it was that they hadn't touched, when sleep took away their thoughts and armour, but he always woke on his side, and there was always a big gap between them, her back to him, lying at the far edge of her side. His pain and bewilderment with what was happening between them had killed any spark of desire stone cold, even when he couldn't sleep, could hear her moving restlessly in the night.

She turned at the bottom of the stairs and headed for the kitchen and he followed her, wiping his hands on his shirt, and licking his lips and trying to ignore the flutter in his throat.

"Uh, Ellie?" He stopped near the doorway, and watched her rinse the plates and glasses, stacking them in the dishwasher. She looked over her shoulder at him, not quite meeting his eyes, looking somewhere over his left shoulder.

"Mmm?"

"Sam dropped by, earlier. He and Trish are going down the coast next weekend and they wanted to take John and Rosie with them for the three days."

Ellie turned off the tap, pivoting around to face him, a small crease appearing between her brows. "Next weekend is Thanksgiving."

"Yeah," he said. "They figured we weren't going to be doing that this year."

The crease deepened. "Weren't we?"

"Just with … ah, you know, you being injured," he stumbled through the words awkwardly.

"Right." She looked down at the floor. "I guess it would be a fun trip before the weather starts to get too cold."

"Yeah." He looked at her. "So, uh, I can call Sam, tell him it's okay?"

She turned away, turning the dishwasher on. "Sure, yeah."

* * *

Sam hung up the phone and leaned back in the chair, looking at Tricia. "All okay, we'll get the kids Thursday afternoon and take off."

"Good. What happened with Dean?" She'd been busy all afternoon and most of the evening and hadn't had a chance to ask Sam before. "What did he say?"

"He's worried that Ellie will leave if he forces a confrontation." Sam saw her look of disbelief and shrugged. "Yeah, I told him it wasn't going to happen."

"Why would he think that?" she asked. "After all these years, after everything they've been through, why would he think that it was possible?"

"I don't know," Sam said, frowning as an old memory suddenly snagged in his mind. _Everyone leaves you, Dean. You notice? Have you ever wondered why? Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you_. His mother's voice, but not Mary. They'd been in Heaven and Zachariah had used his tricks and he'd seen Dean's face, seen the way the words had sliced through him.

"I think, maybe, that's what he's most afraid of," he said slowly.

"But Sam, that doesn't make sense, he has to know that she wouldn't, any more than he could."

"That's what I told him, but I don't know – maybe the miscarriage really has changed everything." He looked at Tricia, his brow wrinkling. "The doctors told them that Ellie can't have more children."

"Oh god ... that's what she meant," Tricia said, sinking down into the chair beside him. She closed her eyes, her face screwing up. "How was Dean?"

"He said he was okay with it, said he was happy with what they have," Sam said, running a hand through his hair distractedly. "Would it affect Ellie badly? I didn't think she was all that maternal?"

Tricia shook her head. "She's not, but ... it's not that simple. She wouldn't leave him, Sam. All of this, it's distorted everything but she loves him and John and Rosie, she's just afraid of losing them."

"That would be ironic, wouldn't it?" Sam said dryly. "How do people get themselves into these knots?"

"Fear. Lack of communication. Insecurity," she said with a long sigh. "The usual suspects."

"I don't get that, not with them," Sam's brow creased up as he looked at his wife. "Or with us for that matter."

Tricia got up from her chair and walked over to him, straddling his lap and linking her hands behind his neck. "Don't kid yourself, it could happen to us, it can happen to anyone. All it takes is one bad moment, one bad thing to start the doubt, and when it happens to both people in a relationship, it's almost impossible to break free of it."

He looked up at her, hands on her hips. "Sounds like personal experience?"

"Vicarious, but yeah. My best friends in college were in love with each other, and then her dad died. She withdrew from the grief, but she couldn't express it to him, and he gradually started to feel like it was something he'd done wrong. Within three months, they couldn't be in the same room, both of them hurting so badly, and not knowing how to fix it."

Sam felt his heart give a double-beat. "Did they work it out?"

Tricia shook her head. "No, they couldn't get past the fear that they'd lost each other somehow, couldn't bring themselves to admit that it wasn't real. I didn't understand it then. I talked to them both for hours and hours, and couldn't get through."

"But that's not going to happen to Dean and Ellie …," Sam said uncomfortably.

"I hope not. They're strong, and they're not young and stupid, but it could. If one or the other of them doesn't get a handle on it." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "When you love someone this deeply, it hurts that much more, and for some people, just getting away from the pain is more important than figuring out what's happening."

* * *

Dean stood on the front steps, watching Sam's taillights go up the drive and through the gate, hearing Ellie turn away and go back inside the house. He stayed until the evening chill started to penetrate his clothes, then walked back inside, closing and locking the door behind him, his gaze travelling automatically along the traps and wards, glancing up at the ceiling and along the window sills. Checking the protection was as natural as breathing.

He hesitated in the hall, wondering what to do. A buzzing mix of tiredness and anxiety filled him and he wanted a drink, maybe two or three. He turned for the living room, feeling a sneaking relief when it was empty and went to the long sideboard that served as their liquor cabinet. He pulled out the bottle and a glass and filled it, carrying both to the low table in front of the sofa and sitting down.

It might've been his imagination but he felt as if the tension in the house had gone up to eleven the second Sam had pulled away. He leaned back against the sofa, one hand cradling the glass. He was supposed to be getting his shit together, getting it together so that he could get them back to where they were supposed to be, instead of miles from one another and getting further every minute. He wasn't sure how he was going to do that.

Lifting the glass, he closed his eyes as the whiskey slid down his throat, fire and comfort and bite all in one. The last few weeks had been a nightmare, an ongoing nightmare he still hadn't looked at properly. His brows drew together as he remembered what Ellie had said to the nephilim, to draw the half-breed's attention off him.

"_Your father told us all about it. The circle and the nine and the way back in. The sacrifice of the children to prevent Lucifer from ever being able to regain Heaven's halls. And the key to the circle that he and Baraquiel destroyed."_

He hadn't been paying much attention to the words at the time, more preoccupied with how to kill the firstborn and get them out of there alive. The sacrifice of the children … what did that mean? Whose children? And the key to the circle … he hadn't heard the Watchers talking about a key. He straightened up a little, wondering how much more there was to the story that she hadn't told him about.

He leaned forward, finishing the whiskey in the glass and pouring another couple of shots in. Had the Watchers sacrificed their children to prevent the nine from ever forming?

Ellie came into the living room and he turned his head to watch her come around the sofa. He saw her gaze drop to the bottle on the table, then shift to the glass in his hand, an expression flickering over her face then gone.

"I thought I'd take the truck into Corvallis tomorrow, get a few things," she said, looking slightly past him.

He put the glass down. "I can take you in."

"No, that's fine, it'll be a finicky trip, lots of stops, I can do it."

He felt the rejection plainly, and it stirred a small spark of anger in him. "What did you mean when you told Maluch that the children had been sacrificed to prevent Lucifer from getting into Heaven?"

His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw her become still. She was thinking something up, he thought, or trying to think of a way to sugar-coat it.

"The Council decided that the only way to prevent Lucifer from ever being able to regain Heaven was to kill two of the firstborn so that there never could be nine to build the circle. The Watchers drew straws and Amaros and Azazel's children were chosen."

He stared at her. "And you knew this. And you didn't tell me."

"Baraquiel and Bezaliel told me in July, when everyone was here. I didn't think it would be a good idea for the hunters to get the impression that they were dealing with people who could kill their own children, that kind of thing tends to incite factions. And we didn't need factions."

"But you didn't tell me," he looked at her. "Or did you think I would be one of the ones inciting the hunters against the Watchers?"

Ellie looked down at the table. "I thought it was safer if no one knew until we'd all worked together a bit longer."

"Why didn't you tell me, Ellie?"

"I didn't know how you'd take it," she said, looking at him levelly.

"It's November, sweetheart. Were you ever going to tell me?" he asked. "Or maybe it's just one of those things I don't need to know, like the key you mentioned."

"What do you want, Dean?" she asked, crossing her arms and looking down at him.

"I want to know why you're keeping secrets, why there are things that apparently are too sensitive for me to know about?"

"It wasn't a secret. Bezaliel told me in August about the key. You were off hunting that ghoul nest with Dwight and Katherine, and then we went to California," she snapped at him.

He looked down at the glass in front of him. "You know me better than anyone, Ellie. You don't know that I wouldn't have told anyone, if you'd asked me not to?"

"I know that you have strong feelings about kids being sacrificed, Dean, even in the name of the greater good. And I know that sometimes you will put the truth before everything else, even if it's not strategic in the long run," she said quietly. "So no, I didn't how you'd react to that information or what you'd do with it."

He looked up at her, his mouth twisting slightly. "Nothing, if you'd asked me not to."

She looked past him, then turned away, starting for the door. "Anyway, you know about it now. All of it. And I want to get going early in the morning, so I'm going to bed."

"Ellie …"

She stopped and waited, not looking back at him.

"Never mind." He watched her walk to the door, disappear through it. _So much for being able to have an objective conversation_, he thought wearily. She didn't trust him, but he'd known that, known that the trust that had once existed had gone after Seattle and although it had been rebuilt over the years, it wasn't the same as the way he trusted her.

He finished the whiskey in the glass and left it on the table, picking up the bottle and returning it to the cupboard. _I'll take that sleep now, thanks very much_, he decided, walking through the downstairs rooms and checking the doors and windows, the sigils and lines.

He came into the bedroom as Ellie was coming out, a pillow in her arms. He looked at her, and past her to the bed, now missing a pillow and stopped, one brow raised questioningly.

"I've been having some trouble sleeping, thought I'd use the guest room tonight," she said, looking at the door.

Dean felt his stomach plummet – at the lie, at what she was doing, at the way things were escalating so fast he couldn't keep up. He had two choices so far as he could see. He could keep lying to himself, pretending this was all temporary and things would get better in the morning. Or he could accept that it wasn't going to be okay, and do something about it. He didn't want to do either.

"Ellie, if you want to leave, just pack up and do it," he said quietly. She looked back at him, her eyes widening.

"Is that what you want?"

He shook his head tiredly. "This isn't about what I want, this hasn't been about what I want for weeks now. It's about what you want. You make the choice. You want to give up on me, on us? Go ahead. I can't keep fighting you to save us."

He walked to the edge of the bed, sitting down and pulling his boots off, dropping them by the nightstand. Ellie stood near the door, her back to him, arms still wrapped around the pillow.

"What do you want?"

He looked up at her, feeling a little flare of hope at the softness of her voice. "I want you to see me again. I want you to want me again."

He saw her shoulders hunch up a little, her head ducking, then she walked from the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he closed his eyes, sucking in a breath. _And _s_o much for being honest_. He stood up, unbuckling his belt and stripping off his jeans and socks, then pulled off his shirt, leaving the clothing heaped in a pile beside his boots.

Pulling back the covers, he rolled under them, turning off the bedside lamp and reaching out for the pillow she'd left behind. He pulled it across and buried his face in it, breathing in her scent, feeling his chest tighten and his throat close. How was he supposed to get through to her, he wondered miserably, without every attempt cutting him to pieces.

* * *

The room was still dim when Dean woke, looking around groggily, eyes half-shut from not enough sleep, not enough sleep that hadn't been punctuated by nightmares. The clock on the nightstand showed eight o'clock, and he rubbed a hand over his face, knuckling his eyes. The house was silent, perturbingly so with the absence of John and Rosie's early morning routine, the thunder of their feet and their high-pitched voices filling every space. He wondered if Ellie had left for Corvallis, then wondered if she would come back.

He pushed back the covers and shivered in the cool air, pulling on his clothes fast and deciding he'd have a shower later, after he'd turned the furnace on. Downstairs, he headed for the kitchen, intending to make a pot of coffee on his way to the basement. He stopped at the doorway, seeing the white outside, the silently falling snow through the windows, and Ellie sitting at the table, legs drawn up and one arm resting on her knees, her gaze fixed on the falling flakes. The room smelled of fresh coffee, and he walked past the table to pour himself a cup, turning back and leaning back against the counter as he looked at her.

It was still a slight shock to see her hair, short and spiky instead of the long spill or the braid down her back. He wasn't a big fan of short hair on women, but he had to admit that he liked it on her. It showed off the delicacy of her features, her small ears and the curve of her jaw, the long, graceful line of her neck, made him ache to kiss her on the exposed nape, to see her pulse race under the thin skin in the hollow of her throat.

He swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, cutting off those thoughts.

"Snow too deep?"

She nodded. "Came in sometime around midnight, hasn't stopped since." She picked up her cup and sipped the coffee. "Roads are closed from here down to Bend."

He looked out through the window, the garden completely covered, bushes and shrubs and table and chairs featureless mounds of white. She would've tried, he thought, the pickup was four-wheel drive and had chains, but it would've been a long, noisy, slow grind down to Bend.

Tipping up the cup, he finished his coffee and put the cup on the drainer, heading out of the kitchen to the basement. They had plenty of oil and a couple of cords of wood leftover from last winter. They'd be warm at least, no matter how long the snow lasted.

When he came back up, Ellie had lit the fire in the living room and was curled up in an armchair, reading. He went back to the kitchen and got himself another cup of coffee, carrying it to the table. Watching the snow falling, he thought about how to talk to her.

* * *

She came into the kitchen while he was still sitting there, coffee cold in his cup. When he looked at her, the words came out without thought.

"Were you going to come back, Ellie?"

Standing at the counter, Ellie poured herself another cup of coffee. "I don't know."

_No sugar-coating today either_, he thought bitterly.

"Is it that easy for you to give up on everything, on your kids, on me?"

She met his eyes over the rim of her cup. "Is this what you planned, you and Sam and Trish? Some time alone so that you could get me straightened out?"

He blinked, his anger wiped away at the accusation. "What?"

"Forget it," she said abruptly, walking out of the kitchen. Dean sat at the table, looking at his cold coffee. Had Sam and Trish taken the kids to give them the time to get themselves sorted out? He looked at the window. It didn't matter, they didn't bring down the storm, and Ellie would've gone if she'd been able to.

He got up, tipping out the cold coffee into the sink and turning off the nearly empty pot absently. One thing, she'd looked at him more in the last twelve hours than she had in the last three weeks, that was some kind of improvement, he thought.

He walked down the hall, turning into the living room and stopping as he registered its emptiness. _Basement_, he thought, turning around again.

She was sitting at the long table, a pile of books to one side of her, the laptop open and glowing in front of her as he came down the stairs.

"I didn't plan anything," he said, at the foot of the stairs. She didn't look up at him.

"Doesn't matter."

He walked toward her, stopping by the shelving and leaning against it. "Didn't you tell me once that you grieved and let go and got on with your life? That you didn't let grief tie you into knots by not dealing with it."

She looked over at him, the small crease between her brows. "You think I'm still grieving, is that it?"

"Aren't you?" He frowned. "Because I'd like to know what's going on if you're not."

"Nothing's going on, Dean," she said, looking back at the laptop. He could feel the cold radiating from her, the ice walls she'd drawn up around herself weeks ago, her emotions so tightly held down and away from him, from herself, that it was like talking to a complete stranger.

With anyone else, he'd have withdrawn as well. He couldn't with her, couldn't distance himself, couldn't take the cold silences, couldn't just let it go.

"Bullshit!" He crossed to the table, slamming his hand down on the end, the books and computer jumping. "Tell me."

Ellie pushed the chair back and got up, walking fast to the stairs. He hesitated for a moment then took off after her, catching her halfway up.

"Stop, Ellie. Just stop and tell me what's happening?"

"I thought you were sick of fighting me?"

He looked up at her, his hand around her wrist. "I _am_ sick of fighting you. I'm sick of not knowing what's wrong. I'm sick of feeling like everything good, everything I wanted is falling down around me and not knowing why or how to fix it."

"Then give it up. Let me go," she said softly. He looked at her, eyes widening.

"No." The word came out a deep, low growl. He wasn't going to let it all get fucked up without a reason, without an explanation.

"Dean, are you happy here? Happy with your life?"

"At this particular minute, no," he admitted warily, not liking the change in direction. He wanted a linear conversation. He wanted to know what was happening. "But otherwise, yes, you know that."

She sank down onto the step she was standing on. "In the hospital you said we would be strong enough to handle this together."

He looked down at her, his heart skipping a beat. "Yeah."

"Then why did you bring everyone else into it?" When she looked up at him, he felt his chest tighten, seeing her eyes filling with tears. "Why didn't you trust that we were strong enough and ask me yourself?"

"I –" He floundered, thinking back, the memories tangled up with emotions that were still scaring the hell out of him. "I couldn't get through to you, I thought you might find it easier to talk to someone else. I couldn't make you talk to me."

"You didn't ask me what I felt, you didn't want to know how deep the pain had gone," she contradicted him, and he could see that she was struggling now, the ice gone, emotion piling up behind her eyes.

His brows drew together. "I did ask you, Ellie."

She shook her head. "No, you didn't. I kept waiting for you to ask, but you never did. Then Trish came over to talk, and Tamsin, and Francis arrived – and even Cas for god's sake, as if I needed to talk about God's fucking plan then … and you didn't."

She stood up, pulling her wrist from his grip, not looking at him now, looking down at the steps under her feet. Her shoulders were stiff with tension, and he wanted to reach out, but she was already turning away.

"Ellie …" He couldn't remember now, what he'd done, what he'd said. He remembered her silences. He remembered her looking through him and past him, and feeling her withdrawing from him. "I couldn't reach you. I tried to but you wouldn't let me in."

"Is that how you remember it?" She leaned on the banister, her back to him for a moment, waiting for an answer, then she kept walking up the stairs. He didn't have an answer. He had asked her, he'd asked a million times to tell him what was going on with her, to let him in. He saw the door at the top of stairs open and close and he couldn't move.

* * *

Dean sat in the living room, looking blankly at the flames in the fireplace, numb and uncertain of everything.

"_I called you six times, Dean."_

"_And I almost called you back about a hundred."_

"_Good to know."_

Almost wasn't good enough. Not even close. Had he done that with Ellie? Almost asked, but not. Almost given himself to her, but not quite? He looked at the glass in front of him, resting his head against his hand.

He'd been scared, he remembered. Fucking scared to hell at her fragility, at how close she'd come to dying, at the seemingly endless well of grief that she'd felt. Holding her hand, feeling her fingers bite around his when the doctor had come in and told her.

"_I'm sorry," the doctor had said to her, to him, and his face had been sincere. Dean had watched him turn around and leave the room, felt Ellie's fingers loosen a little on his. He hadn't known half the medical terms that the doctor had used but he'd gotten enough to get the gist. Ellie's uterus had been too badly damaged. No more kids. _

"_I'm sorry," she'd whispered, and he hadn't known if she was just repeating what the doctor had said, or saying it to him or saying it to herself. She'd been staring at the floor._

"_Are you … are you … disappointed, Dean?" She still hadn't looked at him, and he'd frowned, not sure what she'd meant._

"_I guess, a little," he'd said, tilting his head to try and see her face, see her eyes. "I don't know." He hadn't known what he'd felt about it, hadn't had the time to think about it._

"_Do you …do you … do–?" she started the question but been unable to finish it, her body starting to shake and she'd turned away from him, falling onto the bed, drawing her legs up against her stomach, burying her face in the pillow, and he'd moved, tried to get close to her, tried to hold her but she was keening, her shoulders and the casts shuddering as her emotions overwhelmed her. He'd drawn the covers over her, sitting down in the chair next to the bed, and waited, thinking that she was crying over the loss of their son._

No more kids. But they had John and Rosie. And he had her. And wasn't that alright? Wasn't that all he wanted? But maybe for Ellie, it wasn't alright. It wasn't enough. He didn't know how she felt about losing the possibility forever because he hadn't asked her.

_He'd come in to take her home, and she'd been sitting in the wheelchair that hospitals always insisted had to be used to get to the front door, staring at the floor. He'd tried not to look at the swollen eyelids, the way her fingers were plucking restlessly and aimlessly at the jacket she'd had on, the sharp jut of her collarbones against the high-necked jersey top._

"_Ready to go?"_

_She'd looked up at him, and for a moment, there'd been a look of utter hopelessness on her face, filling up her eyes. He'd frozen, looking at her, his heart pounding against the base of his throat as fear had constricted his chest. Then it had gone, and she'd looked away, her mouth twisting into a grimace._

"_Yeah. Why not," she'd said, her voice low and harsh._

_That'd stopped him as well and the young doctor had gestured to him from the hallway. He'd gone out, glancing back over his shoulder at Ellie, but she'd been just sitting there, her gaze on the floor._

"_Look, she's going to be up and down for a while," the doctor had said. "The hormones that are a part of the pregnancy take a couple of months to be cleared from the system. They affect her emotions, her thoughts – don't be surprised if she has mood swings."_

_He'd frowned, looking back into the room. "She's entitled to a bit of moodiness, don't you think?"_

"_Sure, of course," the doctor had held his hands up placatingly. "We offered her some medication to help flatten out the peaks and troughs, but she wouldn't take it. I just want you to know that if it gets … unmanageable, or if you're worried about her, there is medication that will help."_

"_Right. Okay," he'd turned away from the doctor and gone back to Ellie, picking up the small overnight bag. He wasn't going to give her pills to make her think that everything was okay if she didn't feel it was. Fucking asshole doctors._

"_Dean … do you …?" Ellie had said softly, so softly that he almost hadn't heard her. _

"_What?" He'd crouched down beside the chair. "What is it?"_

_She'd shaken her head. "Never mind. Nothing."_

"_Ellie, it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay," he'd said, swallowing as he'd looked at her, feeling the first stirrings of the ice wind that had come to surround her as she'd looked at him with an expressionless face, with cold eyes._

"_I'm just glad you're alive," he'd said, not sure of what to say to her. "Relieved that I didn't lose you."_

Had that been the wrong thing to say? It had been the truth. It had been all that had mattered to him. It was still all that mattered to him.

He stood up, tossing another couple of logs on the fire, and walked out into the hall, turning to go up the stairs.

* * *

She wasn't in their bedroom and he almost turned back to the stairs, then hesitated and went to the guest room. The door was closed, but not locked, and he opened it tentatively, looking into the dark room, the blinds down and the curtains drawn.

She was lying on the bed, her back to him.

"Ellie."

After a moment, she said, "Go away, Dean."

"No." He walked to the bed, sat down on the edge. "I can't go away. I won't leave you alone. I didn't ask you what you felt. At the time, I – the only thing I cared about was that you were alive. I didn't – I didn't know that what you were feeling wasn't just about the – what had happened – to the baby."

He waited, listening to her breathing, hearing the faint catches in each breath.

"You were right. What you were going through – looking at the way you were feeling – Ellie, it scared the hell out of me. I know it was different for you, but I lost a child too." He sucked down a deep breath, swallowing over that. "And I know the hormones and everything made it harder for you, but I didn't know how much harder." He turned, looking at her back. "All I could think of was that – that it seemed like what we had wasn't enough for you, and I didn't know how to make sense out of that, because that's not the way I feel. So long as you've been there, I could get through anything. That – it's – I've always felt that way. I thought you felt that way too."

She didn't answer, didn't move and he didn't know if she understood what he was trying to say or not. Stark in his memory was the sight of her, curled up tightly in the hospital bed and keening, and he felt again the helplessness of not knowing how to help, not knowing why it was ripping through her so deeply.

"You told me we'd get through it together and then you chickened out on me, Dean, you left me alone to deal with everything."

The ice was back again, freezing him out. He didn't know what to say to that.

"If you want to talk, then talk. Or let me sleep."

"I'm trying." His throat closed suddenly and he swallowed hard. Getting it out, figuring it out, it was close to impossible, what he felt, what he thought. It had never been easy, even when he'd felt her love wrapping right around him. Now, it was like facing a field of razor blades and knowing he'd be in pieces long before he got to the other side.

"Why didn't you tell someone else, at least?" he asked.

"I didn't want to tell anyone else," she said tersely. "I wanted you."

He closed his eyes. He knew, better than anyone else, maybe, that sometimes there was only one person in the world you could tell things to – and if they didn't want to listen, then you were shit out of luck. He'd always known that she was that person for him. He hadn't considered that it ran the other way as well. Ellie had always had friends – close friends – that she'd talked to, he'd thought.

"I just didn't know – I didn't know that not being able to have kids would hurt you so much." He looked at her.

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Because I thought I knew what was wrong, I thought your grief was about losing the baby –"

"Paul!"

He flinched back from the shocking anger in her voice, anger at him, or at herself, or at God – he didn't know.

"He had a name!"

"Ellie, he's gone …" He could feel himself shrivelling up inside, awash in her anger, her pain, and his own.

"I know that," she said, and her voice had dropped again, low and bitter. "And I – I can't, I can't – ever – ever have –"

He could see her stiffen, shoulders and back tensing, and he shifted on the bed, lying down next to her, not touching, not yet, just wanting to be closer.

"Did you want to have another baby?" he asked tentatively.

"I don't know what I wanted. I don't – it doesn't matter if I did or I didn't because I can't –," she said, the words raw and thick with pain, cutting him to the bone.

She stopped and he saw her shoulders shaking, felt the bed trembling under him. He reached out and touched her shoulder, feeling the flinch under his fingers but leaving it there, jaw tight against the instinctive reaction to leave her alone. She didn't move away, didn't move at all, and he edged closer, until he could put his arms around her, his body fitting along hers.

"Aren't we enough, Ellie? John and Rosie and me? Aren't we enough for you?" he asked, hearing the hopelessness in his voice. He hadn't wanted to ask it, but he had to, had to know, had to be sure one way or the other. Seeing her grief in the hospital, seeing how torn apart she'd been – and still was – he'd tried to work it out, tried to make it fit, but he hadn't been able to. So long as she was there, that was all he needed. But he was scared that having him wasn't enough for her.

"You said you were disappointed, when I asked you about not being able to have more."

He heard the fear in her voice, remembering what he'd said, remembering he hadn't known how to respond to the question, and abruptly the pieces fitted together.

"Ellie, I didn't even know what you meant when you asked me that," he lifted himself onto one elbow, looking at her profile in the near-darkness. "I didn't mean … I don't care that we can't have more kids, I don't. I care about you, I care about the kids we've got, I care about us being a family and being together."

He felt her exhale, long and slow, her ribs sinking under his arm.

"I wanted you to ask me, Dean. I wanted you to hold me close and tell me that it didn't matter, that it was nothing to you, that you still loved me even though I was broken and in pieces," she whispered and his throat closed up. He ducked his head, his cheek resting alongside hers.

"Listen to me. You're not broken, you're not. And it _doesn't_ matter, Ellie." His arms tightened around her, seeing the things he'd missed, understanding, finally, how it had looked to her. "God, of course I love you, I can't stop loving you."

* * *

The room was getting darker. He couldn't see his watch. Not that it mattered. For the first time in weeks, he was holding her and she was letting him, and he thought they could actually get past this.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he asked. He'd been turning the question over and over for the last half hour, unable to work it out. She'd led him through countless events in his past, she knew how long he took to work this kind of crap out on his own.

He felt her sigh against his hand, curled around hers. "It's going to sound lame, but I needed you to get it right by yourself. I didn't have the courage to ask."

"Ellie … it's me, how'd you not know what I was feeling?" His chin was over her shoulder, he could hear the soft pulse in her neck against his ear. "You know what I'm feeling before I do, most of the time."

"Most of the time, when everything I need isn't on the line, and I'm not feeling a hair's-breadth away from falling apart," she said quietly. "I feel like half a woman, Dean, like the part that I always took for granted, the part that kind of makes me a woman, has been cut away." She let out her breath. "I couldn't tell you and I couldn't ask for help. I was terrified that you might say no."

He closed his eyes. "Well, that made two of us."

* * *

_Finding out along the way, what it takes to keep love living _

The line was from a song, and it kept running through his mind, as he thought about the way the relationship he had with the woman lying next to him had played out over the years. At first, he'd thought they'd be able to figure things out easily, both of them wanting it so much, the way she'd known him so well. He'd been wrong about that. Nothing was easy and the deeper they'd gone, the harder it had been when things went wrong. When things were going right, it was as easy as breathing and so … he didn't even know how to describe it … exhilarating? Soothing? Intoxicating? Comforting? Fuck, all of the above and a hell of a lot more. But things never went right all the time. And probably less so in their life than other people's.

They'd made it through the misunderstandings, and the mistakes, and the forces of the universe lined up against them. And he'd thought they'd come to a place where they didn't have to wonder what they felt about each other. Most of the time, that was true. Most of the time he only had to look into her eyes to see how she felt, to feel it against him, an electric warmth that went right through him. But when something really bad happened, something that hit them both, they lost that faith in each other, somehow.

When he'd been stuck in the nightmare of having to kill her, he'd withdrawn without even realising what he was doing, trying to protect her from his thoughts, trying to keep them going without even knowing that he was destroying them. And then this, not getting a chance to mourn together over their lost child, divided first by their guilt, then by fear, and finally feeling a conviction that what they'd had had somehow been lost or shattered and there was no way back. None of that had been real, just projections on both their parts of what they were afraid of, of losing each other. But it had felt real and it had had teeth and claws that had felt real.

"Ellie …"

"Yeah?"

"You know how much I love you, right?" He licked his lips, picking through the words, needing to get it right. "You know that I need you?"

"Why did you tell me to leave?"

He pulled in a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. "Fuck, that just came out … I don't know why, but I wanted to bite my fucking tongue off to take it back." He hadn't taken it back, but he stood there at the edge of the abyss, and felt the cold emptiness waiting for him. "It felt like … I wanted you to make a choice. To get us unstuck from where we were. I didn't think you would."

"And if I had?"

"Would you have?" He held his breath as he waited for her answer, feeling that frisson of fear spiral down his spine. Another fear, that she could leave, leave him.

"For a while, maybe," she said unsteadily. "And yeah, I could see that we weren't getting anywhere, the way it was."

"I would have come after you, if you had," he said, but even as he said it, he realised that he didn't know that, didn't know for certain if it was true. Once he would have. That first time, he would have. But then he'd learned that she could leave and not come back. Not for a long time.

"I don't think you would have, Dean," she said, turning her head a little. "Somewhere inside of you, there's still a part that doesn't believe in me."

He froze against her, against the words. "That's not true."

"Yeah, it is." She turned in his arms and he moved back a little so that she could roll over to face him. "You know it."

_And there's a still a part of you that's afraid, afraid to ask too much, afraid to push too hard, even though the need for answers eats at you. That's interesting. That you don't trust completely the way she feels about you. I'll have to remember that._

It was true. The shifter-witch had seen it in him. He'd felt it himself, watching her pain, feeling it as an indictment; that he wasn't enough for her, that his love wasn't enough to get them through.

"Why?"

"I don't know," he said, closing his eyes. "Because I want it too much? Because I don't deserve it? I don't know, Ellie."

"I've killed for you. I've died for you. How much more proof do you need, Dean?"

His face screwed up and he turned his head away. "It's not about proof."

"Then what is it?" She looked at him, slipping her arms around him. "What is it that'll convince you that you can trust me to love you no matter what happens?"

_What was it?_ That sense that she could leave, when he knew that he never could.

_Dean, she was very clear about it. She wanted you to know that she was alive. She told me to tell you that she loves you. But she won't be back. Not while Heaven is hunting you._

Castiel's voice, in an old house on what was arguably the worst night of his life. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"You can leave, you have before. To protect me and Sam, you left and you didn't come back for years," he said, feeling his way through the thoughts, hearing her indrawn breath. "I got why you did it but it never felt right to me."

Ellie was silent for a long moment. "It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, Dean."

"I know, I know that," he said, looking into her eyes. "And I know why you felt it was so important but … I couldn't have done it – couldn't have left you, and gone on alone, not even to protect you."

"You have done it. With Lisa and Ben," she said mildly. "You made the decision for them."

His mouth curled up to one side humourlessly. "I didn't love Lisa, Ellie."

"You think I'll do that again, if the right situation comes up? Leave you and John and Rosie?"

"I don't know." He wet his lips nervously, feeling her tension growing, feeling her stiffening in the circle of his arms. "That's just it. I don't know."

Ellie looked away, her voice thickening. "Then I'll have to live with that, because I don't know of any way to convince you that I won't." She pulled against his arms, trying to roll away and he tightened his hold, pulling her closer to him, knowing that she was hurting from that admission, that it was the truth but it had still hurt her.

"Don't. Don't pretend that this doesn't all hurt like hell and that you're fine," he said against her cheek. "Don't be angry because I don't know something about you, even though I want to know it, I want to feel it."

She lay still against him, and he could feel her heartbeat where his arm crossed her back, booming against her ribs.

"Don't think that I'm not every bit as scared as you are right now," he continued softly. "Our past sucks, Ellie, and it's got too many things in it that make it hard to remember what's important. Doesn't mean we give up. Doesn't mean we don't keep trying. Doesn't mean I don't love you, and need you and want you."

He felt her relax slightly, the booming thumps under his arm steadying a little. He felt his own heart beat slow down. It was too fucking easy to scare someone. To lose someone. To let someone be lost.

"I missed you," she said, her eyes searching his. "The last few weeks there was this aching hole where my heart used to be. I could see you trying, trying to find a way back for us, but I kept thinking that it was gone, because you wanted something that I couldn't give you anymore."

He stared at her. "I wanted you."

She nodded. "It wasn't a rational thought. I wasn't rational. I thought you wanted a bigger family. Maybe only because now I couldn't give you that. I don't know. I kept trying to ask you how you felt, but I couldn't make the words come out. I kept wanting to touch you, because there are never any misunderstandings between us when you're inside of me, never any lies then or fear or doubt. And I can feel how you feel so clearly. I couldn't do it though, I'd try and this image would appear, of you turning away and I'd freeze up."

He kissed her very gently, feeling her freeze as his lips touched hers, and then kiss him back hesitantly. The knot in his chest loosened. He looked at her and watched her eyelids lift slowly, her eyes softening.

* * *

The room was black. Outside, night had fallen, and they'd been in here most of the day. He was hungry but he didn't want to move, didn't want to leave. He kissed her lightly; butterfly kisses along her jaw and down her neck, feeling her arms tighten around him.

"Tell me how you feel about me," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. He felt her shiver, pulling away from him a little.

She searched his face, his eyes. He could only ask a question like that in a place like this, where no one else could possibly hear him, where no one else could know how much he much he needed the answer, in her words, in her eyes.

"I was in pain, and I opened my eyes, and above me there was a boy, almost a man, but still a boy. And he had deep green eyes and they were filled with tears. His hands held me, and I could smell his scent – strange smells that I hadn't smelled before. I could hear him talking to someone and then there was horrendous pain, and the boy's hands held me. When I came to, he was holding me, and he put me down in a chair and covered me with a blanket. And I couldn't forget him, couldn't forget his eyes or the way his hands felt, strong and caring somehow, or the way he smelled."

She looked at him, the memories in her eyes and he felt his breath stop in his chest.

"When I saw him again, he was a man and I didn't know him, until I saw his eyes, saw this same thing in them, this caring thing. It scared me because I thought I'd never see him again and he'd already taken a place inside my heart. And I knew that I loved him and that I would always love him, no matter what happened. I didn't know why but I knew that was the way it was." She leaned closer, her lips brushing softly over his. "Maybe that was destiny, or maybe it wasn't. I always thought it was just you, who you are, inside, that boy who cried because he knew how much it was going to hurt the little girl and he wanted to take the pain into himself so that she didn't have to feel it. Sometimes it feels like I'll die from loving you so much, like there isn't enough room in my body to take it all."

She hadn't told him about the details of that memory before. He remembered the moment, felt a tremble through his frame at it. And she kissed him through it, not a light kiss, a wanting kiss, a hungry kiss, a needing kiss.

She was pressed hard against him, and the words and that longed-for intimate touch flooded him with desire that had been repressed for too long. He whispered her name against her neck, felt her hands slide under his shirt, stroking his skin, and shuddered, need and love and want driving them both with a desperate craving to make up for the last few weeks of fear and doubt and loneliness.

* * *

The kitchen was warm, the range fire still going despite being neglected for hours. They buttered bread and covered the pieces with ham and pastrami, lettuce and sliced tomatoes, cheese and mustard and onion, cutting the sandwiches in half and setting them onto plates and carrying them to the living room where the fire burned brightly.

Dean finished his food and licked his fingers, looking across the low table at Ellie. She was right … when they were making love together there weren't any misunderstandings or lies or doubts or fears, they could see each other clearly, feel each other's feelings, know each other's thoughts. They were completely transparent.

"You know, the first thing that happens when something goes wrong with us is that we stop touching each other," he said, leaning back against the edge of the sofa.

"I know." She finished her sandwich and picked up a serviette, wiping her mouth and fingers. "If something's wrong, then the first thing I seem to want to do is hide how I feel from you – and that's not possible if we're intimate."

"So … if I notice that you're acting weird, the first thing I should do is carry you up to the bedroom and start undressing you?"

She burst out laughing, and he grinned, pleased with himself. He hadn't heard her laughter since before Santa Barbara.

"I guess that's one way of dealing with incipient problems," she said, wiping her eyes. "Not sure I can manage quite the same act, but I'll keep it in mind."

* * *

Dean opened his eyes slowly, feeling a warmth and heaviness in himself, a smile curving his mouth as he remembered that the nightmare was over, and it was morning, early in the morning, and she was lying next to him, beautifully familiar silky skin soft under his fingers.

The room was warm, the furnace doing its job, and he pushed the covers aside, leaning over her side, his lips and tongue tracing a path over her bare skin, tasting everywhere he could reach, relief edging his desire, a lingering sense of disbelief lighting up his arousal. She stretched out a little under his tongue, and he felt the response deep inside, igniting a fire through his nerves, drawing a soft groan from his chest.

He moved down her body as she rolled onto her back, hands gently pushing her thighs apart, feeling the heat between them, another shudder rippling through him. Seeing her, hearing her soft exhale, touching her, tasting her … thin cold light lighting her skin in bars of pale gold as the sun lifted behind the mountains and shone through the half-open blinds, and she tasted sweet and golden, thick and warm on his tongue, over his lips.

Feeling the precise moment she woke, chest rising suddenly with a hissing indrawn breath as her hips lifted and he felt the hum inside her, smiling as it escalated, tongue lapping as she moaned and tightened and throbbed around him. He could have spent all day there, with his tongue rasping softly over her, holding her hips down as she arched up again, her scent and taste intoxicating, his pleasure in seeing and feeling hers expanding through him like breaking waves, building his own desire in exponential leaps and bounds.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, pupils huge and dark, the light throwing the shadows of her lashes across her cheek, and she held out her hands to him, sliding them up his arms and over his shoulders as he moved up her, entwining them around his neck to draw his head down, her lips parted, wantonly needing him, pulling him against her.

_Nothing and no one can take this away from us_, he thought incoherently as he slid into the warm wet he'd created, pushing through her swollen muscles to deep inside. They just had to remember that, when things got murky everywhere else, this was theirs, pure and unadulterated and perfect and if they were okay here, they would be okay everywhere. The thought lasted a bare second before it was swept away by feeling, sensation thundering through him and lifting and dropping him, need and want and love holding them together tightly, rhythm and pace aligned, carrying them along until the world narrowed to the rising pleasure that radiated outward in increasingly powerful tremors, the unbearable yearning ache of almost-there, almost-there, her soft cries and his deep groans, getting closer and closer until they met and everything disappeared, no more breath, no more sound, just feeling.

* * *

The fire blazed in the living room, the only source of light in the big room. On the thick rug in front of the hearth, Dean looked down at Ellie, sprawled comfortably over him, her cheek resting against his chest, her skin lit to gold by the firelight dancing over it.

"Come on, tell me. Guaranteed no-holds-barred turn-on?" Ellie looked up at him.

He laughed. "You, getting undressed in front of me."

"That's it?"

"You asked," he said, grinning at her. "It's not that complicated. Beautiful, naked woman I love – I'm there."

"Fantasy then?"

"You, getting undressed in front of me." His smile widened at her expression. "You seeing the pattern here?"

"Yeah, I'm seeing that I was right about you being inhibited," she retorted.

He lay back, pulling her on top of him. "Nah, nothing to do with inhibitions, just well and truly happy with what I have."

She looked into his eyes, smiling. "That makes two of us."

"Does that mean you're not going to tell me your ultimate turn on and favourite fantasy?"

* * *

"You want what?" Ellie turned around in the kitchen and looked at him.

"Pie," he said, his expression innocent. "That can't come as a surprise to you."

"It's past midnight," she said, glancing at the clock over the door. "It'll take about an hour to make from scratch."

"No problem." He sat down and smiled.

"And you're helping," she added quickly, going to the pantry.

"Always wanted to learn to make pie."

* * *

They sat at either end of the long sofa, legs entwined. Zeppelin was playing quietly on the stereo, a play list of the ballads and songs that Dean had put together a while ago, imagining a moment like this. Outside, the snow was still falling, everything in the garden hidden under the thick cover, just mounds and curves and delicately outlined shapes, a fantastic art show by Mother Nature for their viewing pleasure.

Ellie tipped her head back over the arm as his fingers kneaded and massaged the muscles of her feet, the foot rub sending warm and contented messages back to her brain.

Dean's mouth curved up in a wry half-smile as he felt the tensions dissolve in her, her body loose and unself-consciously relaxed, fingers curled softly like a child's in sleep. The smile disappeared when he thought about the conversation they'd had, that final piece of trust that he couldn't find in the way she loved him.

"Did Cas ever tell you all the times I asked him to take me to you, when you left after Raphael?"

Ellie was silent for a few minutes, and he wondered if she would answer him. Then she lifted her head to look at him.

"No. I didn't see Cas until 2011. Bobby told me what you were doing, how you were going in Indiana, and then later on," she said, the small crease back between her brows.

_Typical of the angel_, he thought, with less rancour than he'd expected. Heaven had been meddling – or maybe Cas just thought that he was less likely to find out about his deal with Crowley if he was stuck in suburbia, retired, than if he'd been with Ellie.

"He wouldn't tell me where you were, and by the time I found out, we were pretty much at the showdown with the devil," he said, looking down at his hands, at her feet.

"I thought it was only going to be for a few months, maybe six." She shook her head. "If I'd known it would be nearly two years, I don't think I would have left."

He looked at her. "Why?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I wanted to protect you, and Sam, keep you off their radar until you could figure out a plan to circumvent their plans. I didn't want to lose you."

"I thought – Cas said that you told him you wouldn't come back until Heaven stopped hunting us," he said uncertainly.

"Michael told me that Lucifer was on a timetable – it would be six months to the prophesised day they would face each other on the field of battle." She lifted her hand in a vague gesture. "I thought it would be over then."

"It was over then."

"Yeah. But I was too late anyway," Ellie said, closing her eyes. He saw an unidentifiable emotion pass over her face.

If he'd waited, a bit longer. If he hadn't been so sure that she'd lied to him. If she'd come to the door in Cicero instead of watching from down the street …_ if, if, if_.

* * *

The water in the tub slopped over the edge with every incautious movement, and Dean peered over the side, looking at the wet floor. "Should we put some towels down or something?"

Ellie stretched up and back, causing another wave to roll over the edge. "Sure, yeah, in a minute."

He dragged in a breath as she moved her hips, rocking slowly forward and back. "It's, uh, tiled, uh, sure it'll … ooh … be … okay,"

She didn't answer, tipping her head forward and looking down at him, moving faster and sending more water over the edge. "What?"

"N-n-nothing."

* * *

"Why don't you make this all the time?" He cut into the steak with a butter knife, lifting the piece and savouring the different tastes that exploded over his tongue, his eyelids fluttering shut.

Ellie smiled. "It's filet mignon and I don't want to see it thrown over the floor. In a couple of years, it'll be on the regular menu."

"What'd you do to it?" He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"A few things," she stalled. "Secret recipe."

"We don't have secrets from each other, remember?"

"We gotta have some secrets. How am I going to remain mysterious and alluring if I tell you all my secrets?"

He looked at her for a long moment. "Ellie, your smiles are mysterious and alluring, you don't need anything else."

She grinned at him delightedly. "How long did it take you to come up with that?"

He laughed. "That one came straight from the heart. You like?"

"Yeah, I like."

* * *

Ellie woke, looking around. "Dean, was that a car?"

"Hmmm? No, come back to bed," he murmured. She looked down at him, the corner of her mouth lifting.

"I'm _in_ bed," she said dryly. "Wake up, I think that was a car."

He opened one eye and looked at the clock on the nightstand. "It's four o'clock."

"In the afternoon – what time did Sam say they'd be back?"

"I don' remember," he muttered, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. "Uh … Sunday. Afternoon."

"That's today," she said, swinging her legs out of the bed. "Come on, sunshine, weekend of debauchery is over. Time to be parents again."

"You can take care of it, can't you?" He looked at her blearily. "I need about twenty more hours sleep."

She laughed. "Hey, it wasn't me who kept complaining how much catching up we had to do."

"Yeah but it was you who turned me inside out every single time." He rolled onto his side and sat up slowly. "And who was it couldn't keep her hands off me once we got to bed?"

"That was fifty-fifty," she said, pulling on her jeans. "Maybe sixty-forty. I can't help it, you're irresistible."

Dean yawned widely. "I'm not going to argue that."

She walked past him and he reached out, catching her hand. "Before we go down there, and face the masses …" He pulled her on to his lap, kissing her hungrily, deeply. "Just marking my place."

She looked at him, her eyes very wide and green and he grinned. "That's good, now you look like you've just been kissed."

* * *

Sam closed the bedroom door to Laura's room quietly and followed Tricia down the stairs. They walked into the kitchen, and Tricia started unpacking the bags as Sam got a beer from the fridge.

"Well, it seems to have worked," he said, twisting the top off and swallowing a mouthful.

She looked up, grinning widely. "Yep, I'd say so." She shook her head. "Actually, I'm so relieved I can't even describe it."

"Did Ellie mention anything to you?"

"No," Tricia looked at him. "What about Dean? He say anything to you?"

"Nada," Sam shrugged. "The main thing is that they're okay with each other."

"Yeah." She put the bags away in the pantry and stretched, yawning widely. "You know, we could do with a weekend of no children and unabashed sex."

"We could," Sam agreed immediately. "And Ellie did offer."

Tricia grinned at him. "Pick a weekend and I'll ask her about it tomorrow."

* * *

**END**


	13. Chapter 13 Living Death

**Chapter 13 Living Death**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The road, the garden and house, the buildings and trees were covered in snow, the second fall this month pointing to a frigid winter season to come. Ellie paced along the living room, occasionally glancing out through the French doors at John and Rosie, barely visible beneath layers of clothing, rolling up balls of snow and building a snowman. The cover was light and the snow would be gone by midday the next day, but it was good to hear their shrieks of laughter as they played. She pressed the phone tighter against her ear as Laney came back on the line.

"_Hon? You still there?"_

"Yeah, I'm here. What's the story?" She moved to the kitchen, going to the coffee pot and pouring out a cup.

"_Jeremy went to do a recce on that big nest in Maine,"_ Laney's voice sounded tinny. _"It was wiped."_

"Wiped?" Ellie put her cup down. "By hunters?"

"_Not unless they like to get very hands-on. Jer said that the nest looked like it had been attacked by a pack of wendigo – the heads were gone, and every body had been ripped to shreds."_

"Did he pick up tracks? Prints? Anything?"

"_Nope. He said it could've been an elemental but they're not usually so well under control that they'll actually take the heads. No physical evidence he could find that pointed to a particular type of attacker though."_

"Great. Another anomaly," she said, sipping the coffee. "Okay, thanks for the heads-up, Laney. Stay safe."

"_You too, honey."_

The phone cut out and Ellie put the handset on the table, leaning on one elbow and staring absently at the door as she wondered what the hell was powerful enough to massacre a vampire nest and leave no trace.

Sighing, she picked up the phone again and called Frank.

"Frank? Got another search for you. I need any reports, nationwide, of vampire nests being wiped out and the bodies left in shreds, no burning, no cover-up. Check out any particularly violent human deaths in the same area if you happen to find anything."

"_You know, I have got other things to look for, Ellie, like Asase Ya and the firstborn? Or are you saying they're no longer our top priority?"_

"Frank, humour me. And call me when you find something," she said gently, hanging up.

She looked out the window at a fresh volley of shrieks from the garden, smiling reluctantly as she saw Dean and Sam pitching snowballs at each other with deadly speed and accuracy and Marc and Laura joining in with John and Rosie in an all-out war.

The front doorbell rang, and she got up, hurrying down the hall to let Tricia in, Adrienne bundled up to the eyes in snowsuit, scarf and knitted hat.

"Can you see the battlefield from the back?" Tricia asked, following Ellie back to the kitchen.

"Yep," Ellie confirmed, gesturing to the windows as they walked into the warm kitchen. "All going to end in tears, you know."

"I know. They must have been hellishly competitive as kids." She walked to the window, waving at Sam. Sam waved back and Dean's snowball hit him in the side of the head, disintegrating over Marc and Laura.

"Damn, gave Dean the advantage there," Tricia muttered, making an apologetic face at her husband.

Ellie grinned. "Bobby used to tell me stories about them when they stayed with him as kids – fiercely competitive. And not exactly sporting either."

Tricia watched Sam lobbing snowball after snowball at his brother, Marc and Laura making them and piling them up for him. "Yeah, I can see that."

"So …?" Ellie looked at Tricia enquiringly.

"Dean invited us over for dinner, I don't suppose that's really okay?" Tricia grinned at her.

"It's fine," she said, shrugging as she thought fast about what they had that would stretch to eight. "What's your news of the day?"

"Sam got a call from Steve." Tricia sat down at the table, unwinding Adrienne's coverings and pushing them into her bag. "He's in North Dakota. Said he found a big vampire nest, but someone had already been through it – all the vamps destroyed."

Ellie stared at her. "North Dakota?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I just got a call from Laney. She said that the nest in Maine had been wiped out. Bodies left lying around, shredded. No prints, tracks, nothing." She frowned. "Did Steve say what the condition of everything was?"

"Not that Sam mentioned to me," Tricia said, glancing at the window. "He might've told him more."

"Yeah." Ellie nodded thoughtfully. "I'll ask him later."

* * *

The basement was warm, a couple of lamps casting pale gold light over the work tables, the cool blue light of the monitors illuminating Ellie's face as she scrolled through the homicide reports for Rumford, Maine. On the other side of the table, Dean's face was similarly lit, as he searched through the databases for Jamestown, North Dakota.

"I got six victims in Jamestown," he said, looking over the screen at her. "Over three nights, all of them ripped to pieces but the heads left."

Ellie nodded. "There are five in Rumford. Same deal."

"Are we looking at a monster that kills both vampires and humans? Or a hunter killing the vamps and a vamp killing the humans, or what?" He rubbed the heel of his hand over his jaw, staring at the police report. "Every one of these vics was drained dry – that's a lot of blood for a single vamp."

"Aside from spillage, it looks like the vampires were drained as well, at least partially."

Dean frowned and brought up the report on the nest. The police had tagged it a spree murder, although from the cautious wording in the report it was obviously no kind of spree they'd ever seen or heard of before.

"Ditto." He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. "All the hits, all night long."

"Dean, what would take vampire blood?" Ellie read through the reports carefully. "What do you use vampire blood for?"

"Make more vampires?" He frowned. "That much blood would make a lot more vampires but is it still potent if the vampire's dead?"

"I don't know, I've never heard of this before." She brought up a map of the US. "What's weird too are the locations. Why Maine then North Dakota? There must be at least two or three nests south which would be closer."

He raised his hands in the air helplessly. "I just work here, sweetheart."

She looked over her screen at him, one corner of her mouth tucking in. "Print them out, we might need to get together a couple of teams for these."

He opened his eyes and tipped forward in the chair, typing in the print command on each of the files; police reports, coroner's reports, photographs, maps and the related news stories. Chazaquiel and Anina had been working with Adam for a couple of months now; they could handle one of these. Dwight and Katherine with Sariel and Oran? The four were another long-standing team. He could talk to them in the morning.

He stood up as the printers began humming, grabbing a folder as he walked over to the long table holding them. "Bloodwraith?"

Ellie shook her head. "No, they're much more conservative."

"Jeremy said it looked like an elemental had been in there?" He rifled through his memories of hunts and stories of hunts, through years of experience, his own and the hunters he'd met, his father's experiences and those of John's friends.

"He said the destruction was like an elemental's – unbridled rage. But the vamps were at least partially drained, by the looks of it and every head had been taken. No elemental is under that level of control."

"Could it be a spirit? Or a demon?"

"A spirit wouldn't take the heads. And Cas said he sealed all the gates." She looked up at him. "I can't see a demon drinking both vampire and human blood."

Looking back at the screen, she typed in the login and password for the research database. When Frank's simple search screen loaded, she typed in 'vampire blood, uses, myth*' and hit Enter. The search was returned instantly with a No Data Found message.

"Crap."

Dean tucked the printouts into the folders and walked up behind her, looking over her shoulder. "Not loaded yet?"

"Guess not," she said, with a sigh. "I'll be hitting the books tomorrow."

He looked down at her. "Tomorrow, not tonight."

"Yes, bwana." She took his hand and got up, walking to the stairs with him.

* * *

Breakfast was the usual barely-controlled chaos. Ellie poured Dean a cup of coffee as he scrambled eggs, the phone jammed against one ear. She carried bread, ham, tomato and cheese to the island counter and made John and Rosie's lunches, cutting, spreading, sealing and tucking sandwiches into the boxes, along with fruit, small yoghurt cups and sealed packs of plain crackers and dried fruit. For some reason both the school and pre-school required inordinate amounts of food per day. Half of it came home uneaten.

"Dwight? You get that?" Dean slid the eggs onto plates and fished out the bacon strips with his fingers, dropping them onto the plates and blowing on his repeatedly burned fingertips between each one. "Yeah, Jamestown, North Dakota. Yeah, take them."

The phone slipped out from his grip as the older man hung up and he swiped at it with bacon-greasy fingers, watching it shoot out of his hand and across the kitchen. Ellie caught it one-handed as she came back to the counter for their plates.

"Nice reflexes." He grinned at her, wiping his hands, turning off the stove and grabbing cutlery.

"Everyone's good at something." She sat down next to John and started eating, tucking a mouthful into her cheek as she looked at him across the table. "Can you drop me at Frank's when you take the kids in?"

He nodded, spreading butter over toast and adding it to his plate.

"Dad, can we play at Marc and Laura's this afternoon?" John glanced at Rosie then his father.

"If it's okay with Aunty Trish, yeah."

"And grab a couple of gallons of milk. And a dozen tomatoes." Ellie glanced at the fridge, wondering if there was anything else they were almost out of.

"Mommy, could we get a doggie?" Rosie looked at her, and she swallowed, her gaze cutting to Dean's.

"Um … we'll see, honey. Dogs are a big responsibility," Dean said, looking down at his plate.

"We'd take care of it, you wouldn't have to do anything," John added, looking from his mother to his father earnestly.

"That's what they all say," Ellie muttered, picking up her plate and Rosie's and taking them to the sink. "Dogs need a lot of attention, John, or they get cranky."

"What about a kitty?" Rosie shifted to Plan B without hesitation. Dean sighed.

* * *

"What time do you want me to come and get you?" Dean leaned out the window as Ellie came past.

"I'll give you a call. I can walk home if you're doing something else," she said, bending to kiss him. From the back seat she could hear giggles, and she grinned at him. "See you later."

"Yep."

He closed the window and pulled out, heading down to town. He dropped John at school, and Rosie at the pre-school, turned around and picked up the groceries, then drove to the post office to empty their box. Glancing through the mail, he stopped when he saw the thick black handwriting on one small box. _Goddamn it_. It was the same hand, he was sure of it. He dropped the box on top of the rest of the mail and headed back up to Frank's.

* * *

Ellie looked around the screens that almost covered two walls of the long, wide room and back to the shelving that filled the other two. The database was, according to Frank, about three-quarters of the way done. The oldest documents, texts, manuscripts and cuneiform skins and pottery shards had been loaded first, and she wondered if a different search criterion might bring up something. She sat down at one of the keyboards and started typing.

Forty-five minutes later, she conceded defeat. She'd brought up a lot of information, most of which they already knew, none of it specifically referring to uses for the blood of a vampire, other than the usual one. There were dozens of variations on what the creatures were called around the world, she thought, staring at the screen in front of her pensively. Since she was going to be going through every volume even remotely related to vampire lore anyway … she'd put together a list and then run another search later.

Getting up, she turned around and headed for the shelves, moving along the titles and extracting the books as she found them. The library at their house would be stage two. She'd gathered four armfuls of books, carrying them to the table and setting them down in piles when Frank came in, his face worried.

"What?" She took the handful of printouts he handed her and flicked through the pages. Not just Maine and North Dakota then. Pennsylvania and Illinois had both had hits on nests and on the local populations of the towns.

"What is it?" Frank looked at her, brows drawn together.

"You read them?"

He nodded. "Haven't seen that before."

"No, we haven't either," Ellie said, looking down at the printouts. "Aside from going around the Great Lakes instead of across them, this is looking like a reasonably straight line from one side of the country to the other."

"Yeah."

"Is there any way we can get ahead of them – track the nests through thermal imaging, maybe?"

Frank gave her a dry smile. "No. Relative to population centres, most nests are insignificant. We can't get that narrow a focus tapping into the satellites that are up there."

They both turned as the front door of the small house was pounded on. Frank moved past Ellie and hit a button on the keyboard closest, and the screen above showed Dean standing on the front porch, looking up at the camera.

"I'll get it," Frank said, turning for the door. "Do you want me to keep looking?"

"Just set up a bot to do it."

"Right." He left the room and Ellie dropped the files on the table, opening them again and reading through the contents more slowly this time. Pennsylvania had been two weeks after Maine, Illinois a week later, then North Dakota a week after that. It seemed consistent with a relaxed driving schedule. But the blood taken … Allentown reported six human victims. Galesburg four. Because of the time difference, Ellie wondered? Or because of an appetite fluctuation? She shook her head impatiently. They still didn't have enough information.

Both nests had been quite large. And the coroner in Galesburg had been right on the ball, picking up the lack of blood at the scene and doing fairly good calculations as to how much had been taken. Around three to four quarts per vamp. She sat down in the chair at the table, rubbing her forehead with the inside of her wrist. That was a lot of blood – to either carry around or to ingest.

The door opened and she looked up, as Dean and Frank came in. A small crease appeared between her brows as she took in Dean's expression, a mix of anger and unease.

"What is it?"

"Another package from my penpal," he said sourly, holding out the small box. Ellie took it, looking at the handwriting. The postmark was Montana.

"Frank?" She handed him the box and he took it around to the boxy-looking machines that were tucked in next to the line of printers. It had cost a small fortune, but it was worth it. The GE AMX x-ray machine could handle almost anything they needed, including their own people if that were required. The XPS had its own cubicle, requiring an ultrahigh vacuum operating environment. She'd never seen Frank so excited as he'd been on the day it had arrived. It was the smallest model manufactured but the objects they need the electron spectroscopy analysis for tended to be small, fortunately.

She watched as he put on the protective suit and gloves and started work, then turned back to Dean.

"Post office box again?"

He nodded. "What'd I do to deserve the stalker treatment?"

"I don't know, who'd you get pissed at you in the last few months?" She smiled at him.

He shook his head. "Too many to count probably." He looked at the table, piled with books and notes and printout files.

"How're you doing with the vampire lore?"

"Not great," she admitted, following his gaze. "There were two more hits, like Maine and North Dakota. One in Pennsylvania, one in Illinois."

"Travelling west," Dean said, looking at her. Ellie nodded, picking up the map Frank had printed, showing all four locations and the dates.

"Do we have a trajectory?" He looked at the map over her shoulder. "Moving fast, too."

"A choice. Montana, Idaho, Washington – or here in Oregon."

"There never were any nests in Montana," he said thoughtfully, looking at the map. "Idaho or Washington or here. I don't like that much."

"No, me either."

Frank came out of the cubicle and cleared his throat. They walked over to him.

"It's organic this time, possibly a spell laid on it," he said, handing Ellie two printouts. The first was the composition, elemental and empirical analysis. The second was a photograph of the object and the note that had come with it.

"A rose. That's not suspicious at all," Dean looked at the photograph. The note, which like the first one, had been lying under the rose, was in the same thick black pen, the handwriting identical to the first note.

_Dear Dean,_

_Glad to see you found your way out of the past. This one might let you explore more than your present holds now._

Ellie looked down at the picture of the deeply red rose. It was identical to the roses that had been used by the unfound witch in Santa Barbara. She looked at Dean.

"Do we still have the evidence bags with the Santa Barbara roses?"

"Yeah, in the job file." He looked at the picture. "Think it's the same batch?"

"Yes, I do," she said, catching her lip with her teeth as she looked at the picture. "Which means your secret admirer has been able to follow us around."

"Crap." He looked at her. "I'll get the other rose."

"Dean, this is really personal. This is someone you know – someone who feels that they know you, that they have a connection to you," Ellie said, looking back at the note.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, but I don't know who that could be."

She looked at him worriedly, knowing the same thought was in both of their minds. It was someone who knew where he lived. He turned away and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Frank looked questioningly at Ellie.

"Whoever it is, they know about him, know about us, know where we live. So far, everything has been aimed at him," she said, not wanting to say the rest of her thought aloud. "The roses had a spell – either through touch or smell – they took the victim's emotions and amped them right up to whatever extreme the person was capable of."

Frank frowned. "What would that do in Dean's case?"

"I don't know." Ellie looked down at the picture. "What did you find out about the handwriting?"

"I've tried the sample against every law enforcement database in the country that supports the comparisons, even tried the National Archives at the Library of Congress and the Smithsonian, but so far… _nyet_."

"Whoever it is could be a nobody, or a hunter, or a witch with absolutely no criminal connections or records." Ellie exhaled loudly. "Forget it. We're not going to get any further with the writing itself."

"It was mailed Tuesday from Montana," Frank looked at the cubicle where the box was still sitting. "I'll check and see if there's any security footage in the area, maybe we'll get lucky that way."

"Thanks, Frank," Ellie said, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "I need a search done on the database with all the variations of vampiric lore names – in a lot of the older stuff they weren't called vampires at all. Oh, and different language variations as well."

"Give me the list and I'll get on it."

"I would like to work a single case with a single bloody outcome for once, instead of having all these jobs tripping over each other."

"I'll try and find one for you for Christmas," Frank said, straight-faced. She snorted.

"I'd appreciate that."

* * *

"Ellie?"

She looked up, suddenly becoming aware of the tension in her neck and shoulders, the dry, gritty feeling in her eyes. Frank stood behind her.

"Dean just called. He's coming to get you."

"Right," she said, looking at her watch. Ten past six. _Crap. Crap. Crap_. "Okay, yeah, I'm done."

He pulled in five minutes later and she was waiting at the door, notes, printouts, the text she'd been working on and a data storage disc tucked under one arm.

"See you in the morning, Frank!"

"Uh huh." Frank's voice drifted out from the back of the house as she closed the door behind her, and hurried down the path to the car. The sky was clear and the air still and the temperature had to be well below zero, her breath crystallising as it hit the cold from the warmth and moisture of lungs and throat.

Sliding into the heater-warmed car, she put her armload of research on the seat and looked at him.

"Sorry, you should have called earlier and interrupted."

"Frank was cagey about disturbing you," Dean said, smiling at her as he turned around to reverse down the drive. "Kept saying you'd be finished soon."

"Oh … brother."

"You find anything useful?" The black car's tyres spun on the gravel then gripped and they headed home, the headlights picking up the gleam of ice along the way.

"Lots of useful things. None of them particularly useful to this situation at this particular time."

"Shocker."

"Mmmm." Ellie tipped her head back, stretching as much as she could. Dean looked at her.

"Sore?"

"Unbelievably." She rolled her shoulders and sighed. "I'll have a hot bath when we get home."

He slid a sideways look at her, one side of his mouth lifting. "I'll help."

He turned into the driveway and pulled around in front of the house, coasting to a stop in the usual space. Getting out into the cold air again, Ellie felt a shiver ripple up her spine, and she tucked the documents tighter against herself as she followed him up the steps to the porch.

The house was warm and they walked into the living room, where the fire crackled on the hearth. Ellie glanced at the sofa and froze. John and Rosie were lying on the sofa, asleep, curled together. She looked at Dean and saw his eyes widen, his jaw clench tightly.

"They were in bed," he said to her in a low voice.

"They were, indeed. Sleeping like little angels."

The voice was warm and mellow, accented slightly, Italian, Ellie thought remotely as she turned around.

The woman stood by the door they'd come in through, perhaps five foot seven, long, black hair swept into a simple chignon on the top of her head, pale olive skin and large dark eyes. Ellie saw the way the light seemed to almost bend around her, as if it could hide her at any moment.

Beside her, she felt Dean stiffen as he recognised the creature that faced them.

_Vampire._

"It's Dean, isn't it?" The woman looked at him, a slow, lazy smile playing over her lips. "You might not remember, 2007, in New Orleans, we were quite close for a short time."

Dean stood statue-still and stared at her.

"I've never had another who was quite so responsive, so deliciously passionate even against his will."

"I remember ganking a couple of vamps, in New Orleans in '07," Dean said coldly. Underlying the antagonistic tone, Ellie heard something else, some thready trace of unease.

"Fledglings," the vampire said dismissively, lifting her hand and admiring her rings. "I left the night your brother found you. I'm not surprised you found the other two easily."

"Are you here to relive old times, or did you have some purpose to the visit?" Ellie cut in impatiently.

"Purpose, yes. I have a purpose." She stepped toward them. "My name is Francesca _della_ Celentano _de_ Modicia. And I require the skills of a hunter."

"Just like that?" Dean sneered. "Why would we help a vampire?"

"Because your family is vulnerable, caro. Easily accessible." Francesca glanced down at the sleeping children. "And what I seek is something you will seek too."

Ellie felt Dean's fury radiating out from him, almost crackling in the silent room. "Dean."

Neither saw the vampire move. She was beside him, her arm around his throat, hard and unyielding as a band of steel, holding him effortlessly as she touched her lips to his ear.

Then she was behind the sofa, and Dean lifted his fingers to the sore skin of his neck, a trace of blood on the tips from the thin red line she'd left with one long nail.

"You've made your point. What do you want from us?" Ellie looked at the red line on his neck, then back at the vampire.

"There's a … creature, hunting my kind and yours. It hunts in darkness and in the daylight, and it drains the blood of all its victims, vampire and human. I want you to find it and kill it."

* * *

Dean came back down the stairs, and walked into the living room. John and Rosie were back in their beds, heartbeats normal, warm and alive and just sleeping, he thought, holding his reactions back firmly.

He looked across at Ellie, nodding slightly as she looked up at him. She had the files of the vampire nests hit in the past few weeks open on the low table in front of her, the vampire sat comfortably in the armchair opposite. His fingers itched for a machete.

"How did you find us?" he asked, sitting on the sofa beside Ellie. Francesca lifted a brow delicately.

"I know your scent, Dean. I caught it in Monterey when you cleared out the vampires just outside of that town."

"You were in Monterey?" Ellie looked at her curiously.

"For a brief time, I was watching the others. They seemed organised for a time, but something happened and they stopped following Usiku's orders, began hunting for fresh blood." She looked from Ellie to Dean, her full red lips curving up in a smile. "When I smelled you in _Mort Noir_, I knew it was time to leave."

"That was nearly a year ago," he said, frowning.

Francesca nodded languidly. "I keep a few _pied-à-terre_ along the coast. I've been in California since 2007. Last winter I came up to the Cascades and I smelled you again – all over Bend. It wasn't difficult to find you from there."

"Where did you say the next was, after North Dakota?" Ellie looked down at the files, filing away the information the vampire had given unintentionally. She would get Frank to look into the property records in the coastal towns tomorrow. They needed leverage over the vampire to counterbalance the ease with which she could take their family.

"Idaho," Francesca looked at her, eyes half-closed in thought. "Twin Falls."

Ellie stood up, going to the phone. She dialled a number and walked out of the living room.

Dean looked at the map. Southern Idaho. Whatever it was, it was coming for Oregon, he thought uneasily. Coming for them? He pushed the thought away. It was too early for speculation.

"What can a vamp's blood be used for – other than making new vamps?" He looked reluctantly at the woman in the chair across from him.

"I can't tell you that, Dean. You might use it against me," she said, her voice purringly soft.

"You better give us some information we can use, or you might be next on the dinner menu," he said, gesturing at the files. "The humans were all drained dry – five to six quarts per vic taken. But the vamps – whatever did it, it didn't take the whole bottle, just a couple of quarts from each one, some were left untouched. Why?"

Francesca looked away, lips pursing. He could see that despite the easy and rather feline humour, she was annoyed at having to talk to them, having to ask for help from them. _Suck it up, sweetheart, it's a bitch finding decent help these days_, he thought sourly.

"I don't know," she said finally, turning back to look at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

He considered her. "If you do know, and you don't tell us, there's not much point us being involved, is there?"

She scowled at him delicately, barely a crease forming on the smooth skin. "I am telling you the truth."

Ellie walked back into the room, setting the phone handset onto the side table as she came past Dean. "Frank confirmed it. The police and feds are all over it right now."

"It's not a long drive from Twin Falls to here," he looked at her, his face carefully expressionless.

"There's another nest, in between." The vampire leaned forward. "A small town called Burns."

Dean nodded. "On highway 20, about a hundred twenty, thirty miles out from Bend." He looked at Ellie. "I'll take Carl and Bezaliel."

"Dean, we don't know what this thing is yet – how're you going to kill it?"

"I guess we'll start with decapitation and work our way through the other options from there," he said, grinning lop-sidedly at her. He turned to Francesca. "You're coming too."

She drew herself up, dark eyes flashing a little red at him. "In case you've forgotten, I hired you."

He snorted. "Relax, sweetheart, you don't need to get involved in the bloody end, but we can't get near a nest without them knowing about it – and you can. So, you're coming."

* * *

Ellie stood with him on the porch an hour later, the two cars loaded with everything they thought they'd need.

Dean looked at her. "Sam's up to speed. Anything happens, and you call him."

"Okay," she said, looking up at him. "Be careful."

He put his arms around her, bending his head to kiss her. "Hey, it's me."

She didn't answer, winding her arms around him and kissing him deeply instead.

"Don't take too long," she said.

"Be just a little while," he replied, grinning over his shoulder as he walked down to the black car.

He could see her standing there as he drove out, getting smaller in the mirror. It was getting harder to leave her. No matter how risky a job might be, if she was with him on it, he felt like the odds of both them living were better. He glanced at the woman sitting beside him then back to the road. This kind of company he didn't need.

"How long is this going to take?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"A couple of hours to get there." He checked the mirror, seeing Carl's over-sized headlights behind him. "I don't know how long the rest will take."

"You don't remember anything of New Orleans, do you?"

He stared at the road ahead of them. "No."

"What a shame."

He made an effort to laugh. "For you."

He could see her smile from the corner of his eye and kept his gaze rigidly forward. _Should have made her ride in the back of Carl's truck_, he thought darkly.

* * *

_**Highway 20, Oregon**_

His phone rang when they were twenty miles from the little town, and he answered it as soon as he saw the caller.

"What's wrong?"

"_Depends on your point of view_," Ellie answered dryly. "_Frank got the crime scene photos from Twin Falls – I'm sending them to your phone now_."

"What am I looking for?"

"_The bite marks_."

"How'd you get the crime photos so quickly?"

"_Frank intercepted them when the cops sent them to the feds_."

"Are you okay?"

"_Yep, all quiet here. Ask Francesca about them, Dean_." She hung up and he glanced down, pressing the button for email. The photo files were tiny but perfectly clear. And the bite marks in the victims were unmistakable. He handed Francesca the phone wordlessly.

"That's impossible." The vampire stared at the images, scrolling from one to the next.

"Those are vampire bites," Dean said coolly.

"No vampire would kill another," she said, looking at him, her brows drawn together. "It's the only unbreakable law we have. We do not kill each other."

"Well, someone broke your unbreakable rule." He shrugged, taking the phone as she handed it back.

"It's not just that," she said, closing her eyes. "The monster hunts in the daylight hours – that's when the nests are hit, during the middle of the day."

"How do you know that?" He flicked a curious sideways look at her.

"Your police photographs of the remains in Galesburg," she admitted reluctantly. "Those bodies were burned, slightly. As if someone had opened the coverings that kept the building dark."

"Didn't feel like sharing that with the class earlier?" His lip curled up.

"I told you the monster hunted in the daylight hours. And a vampire cannot," she retorted coolly. "At least not a vampire of this power."

"What's that mean?" He eased off the accelerator as they came to a bend.

"Only an old vampire could attack and kill like this, taking so much blood, not that any old one would. We gain power as we get older. We can manipulate the minds of mortals, can move at speeds which you cannot register, create illusions. We grow in strength as the years pass. But we also become more vulnerable to certain things as we age."

"Sunlight being one, I guess?" He looked at her. She nodded.

"Yes."

"What else?"

The silence stretched out between them and he let out a gusty exhale.

"If we're hunting an old vampire, then we need to know what its vulnerabilities are, Francesca. We need to know everything, or we're not going in at all."

She scowled at him. "Silver. We are more vulnerable to silver as we age."

"Anything else?"

"No," she said, catching his doubtful look. "There is nothing else."

"Why silver?"

"I don't know," she said, annoyance edging her voice. "When I was made, there was precious little myth about vampires."

"But no matter what age, you're still vulnerable to dead man's blood? To decapitation?"

"Yes." She smoothed down the skirt of her dress. "It cannot be a vampire."

"Yeah, well those bite marks say different," he said, chewing on the corner of his lip as he thought of them. "We'll have to wait and see."

* * *

_**Burns, Oregon**_

The town was dark and quiet when they drove in, finding a small motel on the western side and getting rooms. Dean unloaded the gear bag and pulled out the files. Francesca had left, haughtily stating that she would find lodgings more suited to her needs. Carl and Bezaliel sat at the small table and looked through the files, looked at the distinctive punctures in the photos on Dean's phone.

"Your vampire says it cannot be a vampire, but these are vampire bites." Bezaliel looked at Dean. The golden haired Watcher had run several hunts now, in a team and on his own. While his brother, Baraquiel, preferred to remain in the hunter's enclave, focussing on research and training, Bezaliel had found enjoyment in the hunt.

"She's not 'my vampire' and yeah, apparently rule number one is no killing other vampires," Dean said dourly.

"What would a vampire want with other vamp's blood anyway?" The Watcher frowned. "Surely they could make enough of their own fledglings to satisfy any thirst for power?"

Something he hadn't asked Francesca, Dean thought irritably. Damned vamp made him so uncomfortable he wasn't doing his job now. He was starting to remember some things about New Orleans, he realised uneasily. Flashes and feelings more than memories, he thought. None of them conducive to a neutral view of the woman.

"We'll ask her Highness whenever she decides to turn up again," he said, sitting down and opening the map of the town. "The nest is here." He pointed to a grouping of buildings a half-mile out of the town.

"This place is tiny," Carl said, looking at the map. "What the hell is a nest of vampires doing here?"

"They're feeding in Idaho and Washington, apparently," Dean said, drawing a triangle between Burns, Boise and Kennewick with a fingertip. "Hiding out? I don't know. And I don't care, particularly."

"There's no real localised population here – no apartment buildings or high-rise where it can take several at a time – where will the monster feed for its human blood?"

"Most of the households here are families," Dean said slowly, feeling his stomach lurch at the thought. "It might try that."

"Any ideas on how we can protect them?" Carl looked at him.

"Francesca said that this vamp hunts other vamps in the daylight, when they're sleeping. So if it's going to attack people, it'll probably do it the night after it hits the nest. If she can see it, then we have a chance of getting to its target before it does, at least the small town factor works for us that way."

"Dean, if this is an old vampire – I mean, Francesca – how're we even going to see it?" Carl's forehead creased up as he gestured to the door. "We can't see her half the time."

He shrugged. "I don't know, Carl. She'll be able to see it, I think. So we'll be watching her."

* * *

_The room was dim, he couldn't see anything clearly, only feel – the silk cord around his wrists and ankles, chafing at them now because he couldn't help moving, couldn't help pulling against the bonds; soft lips and satin skin sliding over him, drawing out electrifying sensation from every nerve ending, pulling need and yearning from the depths of his body, he could feel his heartbeat in his ears, thundering at the incredible pleasure that spilled and crackled and spumed through him; he turned his head, his hips lifting off the bed as the muscles of his back contracted sharply, and it kept going on and on, closer and closer to a place where he knew he wouldn't be able to bear it, where it would cross the line from ecstasy into agony; he couldn't breathe, couldn't shut out the feeling, couldn't shut down his body, she didn't give him a chance to fucking breathe; and she was over him, he could feel her heat, feel the dripping moisture running down him, thrusting hard to get into her, so desperate to get deeper, no leverage spread-eagled on his back, and finally she enclosed him, hot, so tight and soft and wet and he bucked against her, no more capable of stopping the savage rutting than he could have stopped himself from breathing; the sounds coming out of him, vibrating in his chest and throat, helpless moans and gasps as she tightened around him and he exploded into her._

On the bed, Dean moaned softly, turning over restlessly as the dream gripped him.

_Spent. Limp. Depleted. Exhausted. Nothing left. He felt her lips on his neck, and the sharp prick of her teeth, biting gently through his skin, felt the deep suction as her mouth sealed around the wound she'd made and his heart pumped his blood out of his artery for her._

He woke abruptly, sitting up and looking around. The lamp beside the bed clicked on and he jumped, shifting back across the bed as Francesca sat down on the edge.

"God! Don't you know how to knock?"

She smiled lazily at him. "Jumpy, aren't you?"

He scowled at her, pulling the covers up. "Justifiably!"

"What were you dreaming about, Dean?" The smile widened, her eyes staring into his.

"Fucked if I know," he snapped at her, feeling the dampness under him. How long had she been there, watching him? The thought of her standing in the dark watching him sleep, watching him dream, made his skin crawl.

She looked away. "I think the creature is here."

He looked at his watch. It was three in the morning. "Will it take people first? Or the nest?"

"I don't know."

He rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. _Brought the bitch all the way here and she was as much as use as_ … he looked at her. "Can you check the town? If it's going to attack the people first, we have to be there."

She stood up and walked out, closing the door gently behind her. How'd she even gotten in, he wondered uneasily. He pushed the covers aside and got dressed, getting a long machete, the automatic and his knife from the bag on the floor at the foot of the bed. The gun was loaded with silver bullets. If it was an old vamp, then it would be susceptible to a few silver rounds, maybe enough that it would slow it down so that he could take the head.

He pulled on his boots and went out of the room, banging on Carl's door, then Bezaliel's.

Dean turned his head as he heard a soft noise in the shadows at the end of the line of rooms. He couldn't see anything in the darkness there. His fingers tightened on the machete hilt as he turned back to Carl's door. Francesca stood less than a foot from him and he felt his heart leap into his throat again, checking the instinctive swing of the heavy blade, rolling his eyes.

"Christ! Make a noise! Clear your throat! Don't just sneak up on people," he said, in nervous exasperation.

"I thought your senses were better than most humans?" She looked at him condescendingly.

"You're goddamned lucky my reflexes are," he said, as Carl came out.

* * *

The three men were covered in ash and oil, the mixed reek of trillium, saffron and vervain rising from them as they crouched beside the unclipped hedge along the side fence of the house. They wore throat mikes and ear pieces but didn't risk even the softest subvocalisation so close to the house. Dean gestured once to the back of the house and Bezaliel rose silently and moved along the hedge, his footfalls indistinguishable from the soft rustling of the light breeze in the foliage.

Carl followed Dean to the front of the house. Francesca had disappeared again, silent and formless as a shadow herself, she was entering the house some other way, Dean hoped. No matter how quiet they were, he thought that a vampire, an old vampire, would probably hear them as they picked the locks and opened the door. He wasn't sure if the vamp would run or fight – but either way they had covered the exits.

He knelt beside the front door and slid the pick and torque wrench into the lock, working through the pins. The lock's click was very soft, but still audible and he pushed the door wide, checking behind it as he entered, feeling Carl behind him. He tightened his grip on the sharkskin hilt of the machete in his hand as he left Carl in the hall and headed for the staircase in front of him.

They had no hope of seeing the thing. Even without the power to bend the light around them, to hide in a sliver of darkness or along the edge of a moonbeam, vampires were too fast to see. Under his shirt he was wearing the silver pendant necklace Father Monserrat had given to Ellie last Christmas. He could feel the round discs warm against his skin. It wasn't much, in the way of protection, but it was the best they'd had, and its history had seemed pretty legit anyway.

He heard the soft noise from the first bedroom, and walked slowly and silently along the carpeted hall to the door that stood ajar. The moon was half-full, its light more grey than white, but he could see the furniture in the room, the chequered pattern of moonlight and shadow across the floor, the figure leaning over the bed.

Its head snapped up as he slid through the narrow gap between door and jamb, and his hand slapped against the wall for the light switch, flooding the large room with light. He caught a second's glimpse of long dark hair, a skeletal-looking face with black eyes, half covered in blood, long limbs in black clothing, then it was gone, no flicker, no movement to show direction, just gone.

"Carl, Bezaliel, it's moving," he said loudly and crossed to the bed. The couple who had slept there were dead, throats almost ripped out, blood soaking the bedding under them. He turned and ran for the door, pounding along the hallway to the next room. A teenage girl had been half-dragged from the bed, her head at an awkward angle to the floor, the blood pool around her shockingly red under the bright overhead light.

_Fuck!_ He turned and kept going down the hall, pushing the door open. The sound of glass shattering was loud in the silent house and he hit the lights in time to see half the frame and one of the curtains dragged out the window, a flick of black hair disappearing with it.

"Went out the south side second story window. Get it!"

He was turning for the door when he caught the red in the corner of his eye. The room held two small beds and a cot. The bedding of all three was carnelian, glistening still in the bright light.

_Goddamn sonofabitch_. He ran for the stairs, taking them five, six at a time, hitting the hallway and racing out through the front door, skidding as he made the corner of the house and shot through the side garden. The crunch of timber under his boots and the crackle of glass told him this was where the vamp had landed, and he slowed down, looking wildly around for any sign of which way it had gone.

"It was too fast," Francesca's voice came from behind him, and he turned around, seeing her come into the moonlight from the darkness beside the house. "Did it take them all?"

"Yeah." Dean turned away from her. "Did you see Carl and Bezaliel?"

"They ran after it," she said, lifting her hand. "That way. They won't catch it."

"Any doubts we're talking vampire here?"

"No." She looked at him steadily. "None."

"So is it an old vamp? Will we be able to stop it?" He looked down at the machete in his hand, the polished blade winking in the cold light.

"I could see it, when it came out of the window, and jumped down here," she said slowly. "It didn't move like an old one, didn't use the moonlight or thicken the air to float down. It jumped down like a human, fast and clumsy."

His brows drew together as he stared at her. He knew what she meant, she moved like it was no effort, as if she were floating through the air. "So it's not an old one?"

She shook her head. "To drain so many, to move so fast, it has to be. Young vampires, those who have been made within two, three hundred years, they could not possibly do it."

"That's just fucking great. Another fucking anomaly." He stepped back as he heard the crack and rustle of the vegetation by the broken side fence, then relaxed as Carl and Bezaliel came through the hedge.

Carl looked at him, shaking his head. "Thing moved like a rocket, we had no chance."

"Did you get a good look?"

"Long hair, black, that's all I saw," Carl said, shrugging. Bezaliel nodded in agreement.

"And you? Did you see what it looked like?" Dean turned back to Francesca.

"It looked like a vampire," she said stiffly. "Tall, thin, covered in blood."

"I'll just send out the APB," Dean said acerbically. "Will it wait for the nest to get to sleep?"

She nodded. "It knows you're here now. But even a small nest – it will wait for the best advantage, I think."

* * *

They sat in the diner, eating steadily, appetites gone but needing the energy, needing the fuel. Checking the bodies, making sure, calling the cops and then cleaning any trace of their presence there, had taken a little under an hour and the sun's upper limb had just broken over the horizon when they'd left the neighbourhood. Getting the ash and oil off had taken a bit longer. They had another six hours to wait, but they'd go and wait by the nest for the vampire. Francesca couldn't help with this hunt; she'd gone underground somewhere, out of the sunlight.

The vampire hadn't had the time to drain the bodies completely this time, Dean thought, washing his food down with the hot coffee. But it'd had managed to take most of it. What kind of vampire could drain two adults and four children? In one brief burst of hunger – they'd been in the house and driving it, and still it had killed the children, although from the tracks it'd left, he was sure that the parents had been hit first. Which meant it had drained the teenager in the time it had taken him to get from one room to the next, and the two toddlers and baby in less time than that, because he hadn't even gone into the girl's room.

How had it gotten past him? He'd felt nothing, seen nothing standing in the only doorway, the window hadn't been open, hadn't been broken … he had to ask Francesca about the power of the oldest vampires in more detail. He remembered Rome, and Ellie saying that the Alpha had gone – in the time it'd taken them to climb one flight of stairs – from the apartment building to St Peter's Basilica. But the Alpha was dead, and what kind of vamp could do what it could do?

His phone rang, and he pushed his plate aside, getting up and leaving a twenty on the table as he answered it. Walking out into the bright morning sunshine, he turned down the street.

"Hey."

"_Any luck?"_

"No," he said shortly. "Got the family and was moving too fast for any of us to get near it."

"_Well, there's something else,"_ Ellie's voice sounded tired and he frowned.

"What?"

"_Got another package today."_ He heard her soft exhale on the other end of the line. _"This one wasn't addressed to you."_

He stopped on the sidewalk, eyes narrowed as he looked down the street. "Who was it addressed to?"

"_To me."_

He felt his heart sink. "You didn't open it?"

"_No, of course not,"_ she said sharply. _"The postmark was Idaho, Dean, Twin Falls."_

It took him a moment to fathom what that meant. Then it filtered through. North Dakota. Montana. Idaho. His secret admirer was on the same path as the vampire. In their world, there were very, very few coincidences.

"This vamp is sending me personal tokens?" he asked her, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice. It made sense, in a whacked kind of way. The vamp could've taken him any time last night, but it hadn't. He hadn't thought of why it hadn't, not really. But if it had a connection to him … he couldn't think how that could be possible.

"_Looks like,"_ Ellie's voice was worried. _"When are you going to the nest?"_

"In about half an hour," he said, glancing at his watch.

"_Dean …"_

"I know," he said quietly, letting out his breath. "I'll call you, when we're done here."

"_Okay."_

He closed the phone and tucked it into his jacket pocket. A vampire – _an old vampire_ – who knew him, knew her, knew where they lived. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Why would a vamp send him cursed objects? Why would _anyone_ send him cursed objects? Things that wouldn't kill him, necessarily, just take him away from his family … he leaned against the wall of the building next to the diner and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to find one piece that fit with another.

"You alright?" Carl stood a couple of feet away, Bezaliel beside him, both of them looking at him with concern on their faces.

"Yeah, Ellie said that another one of the packages arrived today. Postmarked Twin Falls, Idaho."

Carl looked puzzled, but Bezaliel's expression sharpened. "The same as the vampire?"

Dean nodded. "One and the same, by the looks of it."

"I suppose that explains why it didn't drain you in the house," the Watcher said slowly.

"Yeah, small favours, eh?" He looked at the sun's position. "Let's get going. We need to find somewhere inconspicuous to watch for this thing."

* * *

The crash from the barn was muffled, but all three leapt to their feet and ran for the old building, machetes out, sending spears of light flashing from the long thick blades. Dean didn't even think of being quiet or sneaky, the drop kick slamming into the door and breaking it open, rolling to his feet as he came through past the splintered wood.

On the ground to his right, two vampires lay headless, huge bloody holes in their chests. The smell of rotting flowers and decomposing flesh was rich enough to carve in the sun-warmed building, overlaid now by the sweetish copper-tanged bite of the scent of blood. He saw a flicker of movement above him in the loft, a swirl of the dust motes glinting in the air, and grabbed the chain haul as Carl and Bezaliel came in.

"Loft," he yelled, sliding the machete back through his belt and climbing hand over hand up the chain through the trap door above. Bales of straw and hay were scattered around the open space, some splattered with red, others soaked in it. He heard a soft slur against the wooden floor and spun around, the blade in his hand again as he searched for movement, for a difference in the thickness of the air, for a gleam where no gleam should be.

Behind the stack of bales ahead of him he saw the movement, a flash of dark hair against the brighter gold of the bale and ran forward. He had to jump the body that lay on the floor, head gone and cold blood spilling out across the floor, seeing another flick a little further along, behind another stack of bales.

"Dean! Where are you?" Carl's voice shouted from the other end of the loft.

He couldn't afford to answer, even if the vamp knew where he was, even if it could hear his footfalls and heartbeat and smell his blood. He dove across the pile, hand outstretched and felt the coarse dark hair slide across his fingers, a fragmentary glimpse of wide dark eyes, and the overpowering stench of blood and rot.

_Gun, asshat, get out your fucking gun!_ The thought slammed through his mind as he saw the sunlight glinting from the whirling dust motes, his only trail to the creature who could move faster than his senses could register.

"Carl – look out!" He saw the young hunter near the edge of the loft floor, staring around him, the bales behind him shivering with air movement past them. Carl spun around, machete blade rising, then he was thrown out off the raised floor, arms and legs pinwheeling as he fell to the earth floor below, a spray of blood fanning out through the air.

The 9mm fired and kept firing, the muzzle flash brilliant and the sound booming around the barn as he pulled the trigger, tracking the vampire's movements across the loft by the movement of the dust in the air.

He saw the vampire reappear by the large square bale door, back to him, hunched over, hand curled over the baling hook, then it was gone, through the open square and down onto the ground, Bezaliel gone too, and he looked down at Carl, lying on the ground, blood streaming from slashes over his chest.

Dean sheathed the machete and ran to the ladder, ignoring the splinters embedding themselves in his palms as he half-slid down its length, turning and running to the young man, kneeling beside him.

There were three claw marks across his chest, scraped down to the ribs, and Carl's arm was bent the wrong way, the shoulder joint pushing against the fabric of his shirt. Dean checked his pulse, then lifted his eyelids, relieved as the pupils contracted in the sunlight coming through the smashed open doors. He rolled Carl onto his side, and rotated the arm, pressing it close to his ribs, then bringing it out again, until the joint was close to the socket. He pushed hard and felt the ball slide reluctantly back into the socket, glad that Carl had been unconscious for that little manoeuvre at least. The scratches didn't look deep and his blood wasn't flowing fast. He looked up as the Watcher strode back into the barn, the scowl on his face indicative enough of what had happened.

"There's a blood trail. You hit it," Bezaliel said tersely. "Slowed it down but not quite enough."

"At least something can slow it down," Dean said. "Can you do anything about Carl?"

The Watcher knelt beside him and placed his hand gently over the young man's forehead. After a moment, Carl opened his eyes, looking groggily into their faces.

"What'd I miss?"

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The black car sped along the highway, Dean's hands curled loosely around the wheel, his eyes fixed to the road. The car's shadow was stretched out behind him as he headed west, the sky turning purple and red and gold with the sun's descent, thin wispy clouds edged and gilded in the last of the light. Knowing that the vampire had a connection to him, he'd told Carl and Bezaliel to wait for Francesca, unable to sit there while the vampire could be heading for his home. He'd spoken to Ellie an hour ago, and everything had been fine, but the prickling up the back of his neck was getting worse.

Didn't ask her what was in the package that had been addressed to her, he thought suddenly. And she hadn't told him, which meant it was something that would have had him on the road and heading back straight away. _Crap_.

Doing the speed limit, the drive took about two hours forty minutes. He was travelling a little short of twice that speed, and he came into Bend half an hour after dusk, streetlights on, the mountains rearing up beside him, their flanks deeply shadowed. The Impala's tyres spat out gravel as he swung it onto their road, the engine roaring between the mountainside and the houses opposite, the headlights lighting up the way and shining on the black Barracuda that had been left, skewed across his driveway between the stone pillars.

_Fuck_. He pulled up beside it, and slid out, knife in hand and slicing at the tyres on both sides of the car. He knew the car, knew who it belonged to, knew who the vampire was and the connection to himself. He couldn't believe yet, but he knew it.

* * *

The house was dark when he came in through the back door, knowing every board, every squeak and creak and loose nail in the place. He stopped at the door to the hallway, listening for anything that would indicate where he needed to go. He heard the scrape of a chair over carpet above him and turned for the stairs.

Emotion and feeling were shut down and locked away. He couldn't afford to think about what he might find. Couldn't think about anything that would take off his edge, his focus, his concentration. He stepped over the stair riser that creaked and came onto the landing.

Their bedroom door was half-open, spilling light into the hallway. He moved along the wall and swung into the doorway, sending the door crashing back, the barrel of the automatic fixed on the figure standing by the dresser, holding the framed photograph.

"Relax, they're not here," the vampire said, voice deep and hoarse. "Must be hiding out at your brother's place, I'll find them later."

Emma Jones turned to face him and he stared at her. The long, coarse black hair was loose over her shoulders and down her back, matted and snarled. The features of her face, that had once been dignified and attractive, looked misshapen now, the bones pressing too tightly under the skin, the dark eyes deep-set in the sockets, the mouth deformed by the second set of teeth that protruded through her lips. She'd wiped off most of the blood but it still stained her skin and clung to her hair, a faint rust shadow over her face and neck. The close-fitting black leather pants and suede shirt were spotted and filthy with it.

"What happened to you?" he asked, the memory of her sitting at the table in a short summer shift jarring with the woman who stood in front of him now.

"Oh, you know, the usual things," she put the photograph face down on the dresser beside her, her gaze shifting around the room, lingering here and there. "I went into a nest and didn't quite get finished."

"You're not an ordinary vampire, Emma," Dean said quietly.

"No, I'm not," she said, smiling at him, the fangs white and red and black. "No, I found a book in the nest of my maker, a very old book. She was … something of a collector, actually. Pretty old herself, told me she'd been made in the fifteen hundreds. I wasn't sure if I could believe that, but she could do some pretty far-out stuff."

She walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, her hand smoothing over the quilt.

"The book had a spell in it," she said softly, leaning toward him on one arm. "A spell that could transform a vampire into a power sink, of sorts."

He felt his brows rising. "Power sink?"

Emma nodded. "I did it, and I killed Clarice, and every bit of her power, all of her strength flowed into me. I wasn't just a fledgling any more, Dean. No, now I had her powers and I was fucking invincible. But there was a downside."

"Isn't there always?" he asked dryly.

"Yeah. I had to keep drinking. Every vamp I took, I got their power, but I had to keep drinking and drinking, vamp blood, human blood, killed a dozen cattle and horses on the way across from Jamestown to Billings. It eats at me constantly, feeds off me if I leave it too long."

"Why the hell were you sending me cursed objects?"

She laughed, a shrill burst that set his teeth on edge. "Oh, I didn't think you'd actually fall for that. That was just to let you know I was coming, Dean!"

She stretched out across the bed, crossing her legs at the ankles and resting her chin on her hands.

"And I'm strong now, and fast," she said, giggling a little. "Oh yeah, I'm fast enough to take your little Ellie now."

She was beside him, one arm curled like an iron band around his throat, the other grinding the bones of his hand against the gun's grip, prising it out of his fingers, her breath hot and foetid against the side of his face.

"Abomination."

Francesca stood at the window, her face drawn into a mask of distaste as she looked at Emma. Dean staggered back against the door, wincing as he drew a deep breath and felt the bruising on his throat, bending to pick up the gun as Emma strode away from him, toward the other woman.

"You're the one who's been watching me," Emma said, circling around her. "The really old one."

"Vampire do not kill vampire."

"Yeah, see I thought that was more of a guideline, than an actual rule." She tilted her head to one side, looking at Francesca thoughtfully. "Now, what can you do that I can't?"

Dean didn't see what happened next. Both vampires disappeared, although he saw the dresser rock suddenly as if something had struck it, saw the curtains lift and fall as if something had passed by fast. And he could hear them, low snarling and deep guttural laughter, a thin shriek and the patter of blood droplets falling to the floor, in sprays and whorls. He levelled the gun, trying to follow what was happening by the movement of other objects in the room.

Then they were visible, locked together, Francesca's scream rising and rising as Emma's hand plunged into her chest, her mouth locked around the older vampire's throat, blood gushing out and spilling down them both. Dean sighted along the barrel and pulled the trigger, watching the silver slugs hitting Emma in the side, through her abdomen, through her neck and into the side of her head.

Emma dropped Francesca and turned to him, her eyes black and completely insane, fangs glistening with the deep red blood that covered half of her face and most of her front. He heard the empty click as the bullets in the magazine ran out, and dropped the gun, the machete hissing as he drew it from the sheath.

"You won't kill me, Dean," she said, her smile a horrifying rictus in the dripping canker of her face.

"Wanna bet?"

She straightened up and he braced himself for her attack, then they both heard the noise behind her.

"Catch," Ellie said lightly, tossing something at Emma's face. The vampire reached up automatically, her hands closing around the small object as her face registered her shock and horror.

Dean watched as the woman froze, her skin hardening slowly, turning from tan to grey to white, spreading up her arms and over her shoulders, down her chest and up her neck, the blood from Francesca's bite solidifying and turning to white. He saw her clothing hardening into folds, the colour bleaching out to grey then white, saw it spread down her legs to her feet.

"What the –?" He looked past the stone statue of the vampire to his wife.

Ellie smiled, straightening up and walking around the statue, stepping over Francesca's body.

"That was the package she sent to me, little turn-to-stone spell ball," she said, looking up at him.

He started to smile, looking down at her, and then past her to the statue. "Oh … nice, and she thought she could take you."

She laughed, reaching up as he bent his head to kiss her, feeling his nerves sing and heat uncoil inside as the kiss deepened, dissolving his tension and fear, dissipating the knowledge that Emma's plan had been to do that to Ellie, loosening the tightness in his body and soothing his mind. They let go slowly and looked around, and he smiled as Ellie's nose wrinkled up in disgruntlement.

"We're going to have redecorate this whole bloody room," she said morosely, staring at the blood that had soaked through the carpets and splattered over the walls.

* * *

_**Two days later**_

Dean stared at the note in his hands. It had arrived this morning with the mail, in a plain envelope, postmarked Burns, Oregon. She must have been there before they'd even arrived, he thought.

_Dear Dean,_

_I told you that you weren't meant for the life of an ordinary man. Now you're free, free to be what you are, be the hunter you are, with me. A lot of things have changed and you'll probably be shocked by what I am now, but there's nothing that can stand against me, nothing in the monster world and nothing in the human and you need someone strong to protect your back._

_I'll be along, sooner than you think._

_E._

The package she'd sent to Ellie hadn't been marked the same way as the others. A typewritten label from a publishing house that Ellie ordered from occasionally had been on the box, and the spell-ball, made of dough and ash and dirt and blood, had been wrapped in tissue paper with a ribbon, ostensibly a gift of appreciation from the company.

Frank had told him that Ellie had brought the box straight to him, unopened, and he wondered how she'd known. But then that was her, she didn't forget who she was or the world they lived in for a second.

They'd found the book and the spell in the Barracuda, and Ellie had given it to Frank to load it into the database. They'd also found a number of invoices from a business in Carmel that claimed to specialise in occult practises and Bezaliel and Idan had gone down there to put them out of business. The roses delivered to the Smoke Crystal store in Santa Barbara had been ordered from there. And the bracelet that he'd touched.

He'd called Laney and told her what had happened to Emma. He still didn't know what to make of the woman's apparent feelings for him. She hadn't known him, hadn't had anything to do with him aside from the one meeting in July. It seemed impossible to him that she could worked it all up in her head from that. But then again, the world was full of impossible things and he'd seen a lot of them.

Walking to the living room, he tossed the note and envelope onto the fire, watching it turn to ash in moments. The whole thing had creeped him out from beginning to end. He and Sam had carried the stone statue to the edge of the drop off, a couple of miles higher up the forest trail and pitched it over the edge. It had shattered into a thousand pieces on impact with the rocky hillside below.

"Hey."

He turned around to see Ellie leaning against the doorway, looking at him, mouth lifting slightly on one side.

"Hey." He smiled back, and walked over to her, putting his arms around her.

"You feel like checking out our new bedroom?"

"Did you get the mirrors on the ceiling?"

She snorted. "No."

"And you call me inhibited," he said, following her up the stairs.

* * *

**END**


	14. Chapter 14 No Remorse

**Chapter 14 No Remorse**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

"Ellie? Where did that box go? The one with the stuff?" Dean walked into the kitchen, looking around distractedly.

"A little more specific?"

"You know – the one. With the stuff," he said frustratedly, looking at her. "The box from Whitefish."

"Dean … we brought thirty boxes from Whitefish – what was in it?"

"I can't remember exactly what most of the stuff was, but there was an old set of baseball cards in there with it." He stopped by the table, looking over the island at her. "I showed them to you."

"Right. Okay," she said, putting her cup down. "It's in the attic, next to the bookshelves, marked "Collectibles"."

He nodded, turning away. "Thanks."

"No problem," she said with a slight smile, picking up the cup again as she looked at the calendar pinned above the counter. They had a two o'clock appointment that afternoon at the school to see the new art teacher, she realised with a slight grimace of reluctance. She'd already gathered up about a year's worth of both John and Rosie's drawings, finally feeling it was time to get a more objective opinion on them. She hadn't reminded Dean of the appointment, though.

She put the cup down and headed for the stairs, wondering if she'd have enough time to work through Frank's latest analysis beforehand.

* * *

Dean opened the attic door and stepped into the quiet, dark space, feeling along the doorjamb for the lightswitch. He found it and the line of bare bulbs came on along the length of the ridge line. The bookshelves were to the left, set perpendicular to the slope of the roof, back to back and holding all sorts of documents that weren't quite important enough to be downstairs in the basement. He saw the pile of the boxes beside the first one and walked over to them.

_Collectibles_. In Ellie's clear printing across the top of the box. He lifted the flaps and looked inside, seeing the cards immediately and pulling them out. He and Sam had been arguing over switch hitter Mantle's RBIs and it was on one of the cards in the box. He had no doubt that Sam would be scouring the internet for the information, but he knew he'd seen it on the card. He fanned through them and Mantle's face leapt out at him. Reading through the details, he tucked the cards into his jacket pocket with a grin. The great Sam Winchester had been wrong.

He looked around the attic as he refolded the flaps on the box, and lifted back on the pile, gaze drifting over the variety of things that had already made their way up here in the last couple of years. His gaze stopped at the cradle.

It had been John's in North Carolina. Then Rosie's when they moved back to Oregon. He'd been thinking about it just before they went down to Santa Barbara, thinking of getting it down, sanding it back and revarnishing it, getting it ready.

For their son. His son. Paul.

He couldn't remember how the name had come up, or who'd suggested it. One of those things that had disappeared in the million other things that had been happening around the same time. They'd both liked it. Both felt it had been right. He walked slowly over to the cradle, and rested his hand against the end, a part of his mind noting that the runners needed cleaning and oiling, the mechanism feeling slightly stiff under his fingers.

He'd felt the baby's strong kick under his hands. _Once you felt that_, he thought, _it changed everything_. He'd gone from thinking of Ellie as pregnant to thinking of her carrying Paul, their child, their son, John and Rosie's baby brother.

He dropped to his knees next to the cradle, feeling a surge of pain, of agony, sweep up him. He had no idea where it had come from, filling his chest and throat, filling the backs of his eyes, his head pounding with it, heart aching from it.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Not supposed to happen like that._ The words raced through his mind in circles, stabbing into him along with the images of a still pale body and blood everywhere over the dark rocks.

He didn't hear her come up the steps or cross the wooden floor, just felt her arms wrap around him and he leaned into her as she knelt in front of him. And the grief that he'd thought he'd felt, had thought was released, rose up between them and drowned them both.

* * *

He leaned back against the arm of the sofa, feeling empty, scoured clean. Ellie lay half on him, his arms holding her close, her cheek against the side of his neck. He could feel her lashes fluttering a little on his skin.

"I thought …," he said softly, stumbling over the grief again. "I thought I'd gone through that."

She sighed, her breath huffing against him. "I did too."

"I – he –" He stopped, remembering her vehemence about the baby's identity when they'd lost each other a few weeks ago.

Ellie looked at him, seeing his caution, knowing where it came from. "You can grieve for the promise of someone, as much as for the person themselves. I know we didn't know him, not really, only the idea of who he might have grown to be, but it doesn't change the feelings of loss."

He rested his cheek against her hair, arms closing more tightly around her. There were times when he felt she knew him so intimately, so deeply, that he didn't have to say anything at all. He didn't know how that was possible, but it had been true from almost the first time he'd met her, when her understanding had felt like the poison inside of him was drained and he could see who he might be.

* * *

The phone rang, and Ellie opened her eyes, lifting her wrist to look at her watch, feeling a sudden jolt of panic that she'd slept too long. _Twelve. That was okay_. She was lying on the sofa, a throw over her, and she realised that she must have fallen asleep, been sleeping for a while. She knuckled her eyes and sat up, hearing Dean's voice in the kitchen, her attention sharpening as she heard it harden.

He came into the living room, the handset held tightly, looking at her as he listened to the person on the other end of the line, his face tense.

"Well, what's the matter?" he bit out, anger lacing the edges of the words now.

Ellie got up.

"No, that – alright. Listen. We'll be there in twenty minutes," he said, hitting the button to end the call with a controlled thump of his thumb.

"What?"

"The school. John's upset about something and they don't know what to do."

She turned without further questions, grabbing her jacket from the coat rack in the hall and slinging her bag over her shoulder as he opened the front door.

* * *

Dean drove fast but steadily and they were at the small elementary school in fifteen minutes, sending a shower of gravel over the steps as he swung the car around in front of the building.

They ran up the steps, Ellie turning for the principal's office automatically, aware of him a step behind her and to one side. She thought that if any teachers or children had been in the hallway to witness their entrance, they'd have thought they were either cops or terrorists, neither speaking, moving together as if they were on a job. The thought brought no smile.

"Mrs Winchester, I'm so glad –" the principal said, rising from behind his desk as Ellie pushed the door open.

"Where's John?" she cut him off, her gaze moving around the room fast and returning to him. Dean saw him recoil a little from the chill in her eyes.

"He's, uh, in the nurse's room, with his sister," Mr Sorenson said hurriedly, gesturing to the hall. "He won't calm down."

Ellie turned on her heel, and followed Dean out of the office, swinging left and heading for the nurse's room two doors down. She could hear Sorenson following them, murmuring something or other, but she ignored him, striding away fast.

John was in the corner of the room, crouched down with his arms wrapped around his face when they entered. Rosie sat on the couch against the opposite wall, hands clasped in her lap, swinging her legs above the floor. Ellie felt a flicker of unease at the sight of her daughter sitting there as if nothing was wrong. Rosie was usually the first to start crying if there was anything wrong with her brother. She looked briefly at the nurse, standing by the window then turned to follow Dean to the corner.

"What is it, John, what's wrong?" Dean's voice was soft and deep, his arms lifting the boy out from the corner, wincing slightly as he felt the dampness against his skin where John's pants rested. Ellie frowned at the stain on her son's shorts as Dean moved to the other short couch in the room, sitting down next to him.

John raised his face tearfully, flicking a look at Rosie and shaking as he tried to hide behind his mother. Ellie automatically shifted slightly to block his view of his sister, looking over his head at Dean.

"We're here, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong?" She leaned forward, smoothing her son's hair back from his forehead.

"That's not Rosie," John whispered. Ellie felt a chill race down her spine. She could feel Dean stiffening beside her.

"What can you see, John?" she asked him softly. He lifted his head and looked into her face.

"Her face is all funny. It doesn't look right. It's not Rosie," he said. Ellie nodded and looked back at Dean, her mouth compressing. She slid her bag around and onto her knees and reached into it, pulling out a small compact and a handful of tissues. As she dried John's face, she flipped open the compact, angling it behind her. In the reflection, Rosie was definitely not Rosie.

"Get him out of here, into the car," she said tightly. He nodded and stood up, lifting John against his chest as Ellie rose and turned to Sorenson.

"He's been having nightmares the last few days, something on television, I think," she said smoothly. "We'll take him home and I'm sure he'll be fine shortly." She glanced at Rosie. "We were supposed to meet a visiting art teacher at two …"

"Mrs Vanbilten, yes, she's been helping the children with their art today," Sorenson said quickly, visibly relieved to have the screaming child and his occasionally frightening parents departing from his school. "She has a session with the parents this afternoon."

"Well, as Rosie's been looking forward to being at big school all week, we'll pick her up when we come back for that," Ellie said, smiling at the little girl. "If that's fine with you?"

"Yes, Rosie's been no trouble at all. The preschool class is just the next class room up the hall."

"We'll see you at two, sweetie," Ellie said to the girl. "I'm sorry that this has been disruptive for you, Mr Sorenson."

"No, it's really fine, Mrs Winchester. Children can become emotional, although I really recommend to parents that at this age, television can be a –"

"Quite right," Ellie said, walking fast out the door and turning toward the school's entrance.

* * *

Dean was still holding John in the front seat of the car when she opened the passenger door and slid inside. She turned to look at him.

"Tell us what you saw, baby."

"The art teacher, the new one. She looked funny, a bit. Sometimes it looked like a x-ray when she was standing too close," John fumbled through the jumbled memories of the events of the day. "She was talking to a lot of the kids, taking them outside. I didn't see … I didn't see until Rosie," he started to stammer slightly, looking up at her as tears spilled down his cheeks again.

"It's okay, John," Dean held him more closely, tucking him up against his chest. "It's okay."

"Rosie went out to show her pictures," John hiccuped, wiping his eyes. "She came back and it wasn't Rosie, it was a monster underneath. And I looked – I looked – I –" He turned his head and buried his face against his father, a long howling sob muffled against his jacket.

"What is it?" Dean looked at Ellie. She caught her lip with her teeth, the crease between her brows deep as she went through her mental files of monsters who could look like humans. The face in the mirror had had a round mouth, like a lamprey, she thought.

"Changeling," she said softly. "The mother was taking the kids out of the class and substituting them."

He nodded, the muscle at the point of his jaw jumping as he struggled to keep his feelings locked down. "How the hell do we find Rosie?"

John sniffed suddenly, looking up at him. "I know where she is, Daddy. She's still here."

"Where?"

John screwed up his face for a moment, eyes tightly shut, hands in small fists. "She's in a car with other kids. Near the park where we fly the kites."

Dean passed him to Ellie, and started the engine, accelerating out of the school with the tyres spitting the gravel out behind them.

* * *

"No, Daddy, it's moving – the car is moving," John said loudly, holding his mother's hand tightly as they pulled around the bend and onto the gravel road that led to the park's parking lot.

"Where, John? Can you see where?" Ellie said to him, her arms wrapped him as Dean slowed down.

"Up a hill." He opened his eyes wide. "There's a number next to the road, Mommy. Twenty."

Dean scowled, turning the car around and accelerating out of the lot. "Highway 20, she's heading out of the state."

Ellie's phone rang and she answered it without looking at the caller. "Yes?"

"Mrs Winchester, I'm afraid that Mrs Vanbilten has had a family emergency and has left the school."

_No kidding_, Ellie thought acidly. "Yes?"

"We were wondering if you would be able to pick up your daughter sooner than two."

"I'm afraid not, Mr Sorenson," she answered, wondering who she could get to pick up the changeling and secure it. "Mrs Katherine Hinkley will be there at two to pick her up on our behalf. We've … uh …"

"Hospital," Dean hissed at her, glancing at John.

"We've had to take John down to the hospital for some simple tests."

"Oh." There was a silence on the other end of the line. "Well, thank you for letting me know."

Ellie ended the call. "Boring conversation anyway."

She dialled Kath's number, bracing herself and John as the car swung tight around the next bend.

"Kath? Need a favour."

* * *

Ellie looked down at her son. John was curled into her lap, eyes closed, sleep having overtaken him an hour ago.

"Dean, we can't take John into this," she said softly. The car was doing ninety along the virtually empty road, and dusk was close, the mountains around them coloured in mauve and lavender, indigo and grey, the headlights shining wanly on the tarmac, picking out the white lines.

"We can't find her without him, Ellie," he replied, keeping his attention fixed on the road.

She turned away, looking out of the window. He was right. John's ability to feel his sister was the only thing that would let them find her. But every mile they travelled east was another mile away from safety, from the defences of their home.

"We just need to catch up," he said, glancing at her. "Just catch up to her. Then you stay with John in the car, and I'll gank the fucking bitch and get Rosie and we can go home."

He sounded close to the edge of his control and Ellie nodded. Neither of them knew how much time they had. Changelings were largely unknown monsters. The few they had killed had been in the midst of collecting – the children taken, the changelings left in their place to feed on the parents – they didn't know what the mother did with them while her monster offspring fed.

She felt the car accelerate a little more and rested her temple against the cool glass of the window. Katherine would pick up the changeling and put it in the panic room where it couldn't harm anyone. And once the mother was killed, it too would disappear.

* * *

"Wake John," Dean said softly as they passed the Welcome to Burns sign by the side of the road.

Ellie shifted her arms around her son and he opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the dim light of the dash.

"Where's Rosie, John?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "I can't see anything."

Ellie looked over his head. "She might be asleep."

"Great," Dean muttered. "We've got too many choices here."

Ellie stared through the windshield as he slowed down and drove into the town. Highway 20 continued into Idaho. 78 turned into the 95 and headed south to Nevada. 395 went north. She looked down at John, knuckling his eyes as he squirmed against her.

Dean drove to the centre of town and pulled over, rubbing a hand over his face as he looked at the signs along the street. He looked over at his son.

"John …," he said quietly. "Do you know which way Rosie went?"

The little boy looked around them carefully. He looked a little longer at the road that led to the airport, Dean thought, watching his eyelids half-close as he seemed to stare at the sign. Then they opened wide again and he looked back at his father, shaking his head slightly.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," John said, turning to look up at Ellie's face. "I can't see anything."

Dean rested his hand lightly on his son's head. "It's okay, John, we'll find her."

He looked at Ellie. "Washington, Idaho or Nevada?"

"Nevada," Ellie said immediately, frowning slightly. "I don't know why."

Dean chewed on the corner of his lip for a moment before nodding. "I think so too."

He started the car and pulled out, following the signs to the airport and highway 78.

* * *

_**Winnemucca, Nevada**_

He woke with a start as they pulled into the town, the streetlights strobing into the car as they passed under them. They'd swapped after turning due south onto the 95, wrapping John in a blanket and settling him to sleep on the back seat, Ellie taking over the driving.

Straightening in his seat, he looked over the back at the sleeping boy. The sour aftertaste of yesterday's fear coated his mouth and he knew Ellie was right – John shouldn't be here, he should have been safe, at home, guarded and protected. Tipping his head back as he rubbed a hand over his jaw, he exhaled softly. If he could think of any other way to find Rosie … but there wasn't any other way. He looked at his watch. It would be dawn soon, and Rosie woke with the dawn every day. They'd know where she was then.

_Unless the bitch has sedated all the kids she'd taken_, he thought suddenly.

"You think she's knocked the kids out?" he asked Ellie. She shook her head.

"No. John's reaction forced her into leaving," she said. "Whatever she was planning originally, she had to go before she was ready."

He nodded, hoping she was right. If they'd made the wrong decision last night, if she'd headed into Idaho instead of south … they might not be able to catch up now. That was enough to worry about.

* * *

Ellie pulled into the gas station and stopped beside the pumps. They got out and he filled the tank as she went into the store, getting coffee and milk, packaged sandwiches and snack food to last them the day. The I-80 ran through the town, leading north and east into Utah in one direction, or south and west into California in the other but either way it was a long way between stops.

Dean replaced the pump and looked into the backseat, seeing John sitting up and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Hey," he said, opening the door and crouching beside it. "Mom's just getting us breakfast."

John nodded, looking around. Dean watched as his eyes suddenly widened, and he felt a rush of relief flood him.

"Can you see where Rosie is, John?"

The little boy nodded, pushing his hair back from his face as he looked at his father. "The sun's in her eyes but she's 'wake now."

_East_, Dean thought, _to Utah_. He stood up and moved out of the way as Ellie came up behind him.

"Utah."

"Good," Ellie said, handing John the small bottle of milk and a sandwich, passing Dean a coffee and cellophane-wrapped slice of apple pie. "Less traffic that way."

* * *

_**I-80 E, Nevada**_

Dean's phone rang a half-hour out of Winnemucca and he pulled it out, glancing at the caller.

"Yeah?"

"Sam, slow down. Okay," he said, eyes narrowing as he listened. "We're a couple of hours from Utah. Alright, bring Ellie's truck, we'll meet you when we've finished here. Yeah. No, call Laney."

He closed the phone and dragged in a deep breath, looking over at his sleeping wife, tucked between the door and the seat. His gaze flicked up to the rear vision mirror, seeing John playing quietly in the back seat with a small box of Lego.

"John, can you see where Rosie is?" he asked, meeting John's eyes in the mirror.

"There's white all around. And it's hard to look at," John replied, his facing scrunching up as he tried to make sense of what his sister was looking at. "It's really bright, like the snow is sometimes in the winter when the sun is on it."

Dean nodded. Where the interstate crossed into Utah, it crossed over the great salt plains, just past Wendover. They were only three or four hours behind the mother. He put his foot down and the car accelerated smoothly. Frank had found Asase Ya in Colorado. He and Sam could head up from Utah, meet the others in Boulder. Ellie could take the kids home.

He shut out the what-ifs and the maybes and focussed on getting Rosie back. They could call the cops in Utah to get the other kids safely home.

"Can you see how many kids are in the car, John?"

"Five," John answered without hesitation. "Tommy, and Rachel and Mickey. And Christina and Rosie."

Dean nodded. Ellie would know how to contact the parents. His foot went down a little further and the car responded, eating up the road, powerful and balanced and making light of the miles. He might be able to catch up before she got to Salt Lake City, if she wasn't aware of the pursuit.

"John?" He looked into the mirror again. "Can Rosie feel you?"

The boy looked down at the blocks in his hands as he thought about that. "I don't think so. She's scared of the lady who's driving. She's trying to make herself small so that she doesn't get noticed. She can see that the lady isn't a real person."

_Goddamn it_, Dean thought with a flush of misery. _More nightmares_. He saw John's eyes in the mirror, his son's face reflecting a little of the same worry and made an effort to smile.

"She'll be okay, John," he said softly. "We'll take care of it, and Rosie'll be fine."

* * *

_**Wendover, Utah**_

"How far behind her are we?" Ellie looked over at Dean as they raced along the interstate.

"John said Rosie could see water, a lot of it," he said.

"Great Salt Lake?" She frowned as she thought of miles and speed. "Maybe an hour then?"

"About that," he agreed. "Sam called. Frank's found Asase Ya, in Colorado. He'll bring the pickup and meet us wherever we are when we've finished this."

"You want me to take the kids home while you go on with him?"

"Yep."

"How many are going?" She looked at him.

"Sam, Carl, Dwight, Bezaliel, Idan and Oran," he said. "Told Sam to call Laney and send Steve and Jeremy down as well."

"Did Garth and Tamsin get all of the ingredients the spell needed?"

"Sam said they did," he shrugged. That part of it was out of his hands. "Not sure how we're going to make the circle big enough to hold her, but we'll worry about that when we get there."

"Fire," Ellie said. "Burn it into the ground once you've located her. And make it hot, the burned earth will hold her for a short time."

He smiled, one side of his mouth lifting. "Where'd you get that?"

"It was in one of the African tales, the oral ones we had Tamsin translate a couple of months ago. If the topsoil is charred it's a barrier. Not a long-lasting one, you've got a very limited window, but it does offend Asase Ya enough to keep her in place."

"Knew there was a reason I married you."

"Yep, obscure facts about long-ago goddesses at my fingertips, you really know how to pick 'em," she smiled, closing her eyes and stretching. "And speaking of burning, is the blow torch still in the trunk?"

"Four of 'em, loaded and ready to go," he replied smugly.

"And that would be why I married you."

* * *

"Dad, she stopped, she's stopping," John said suddenly from the back seat. Dean looked at him in the mirror as Ellie turned around.

"Where? What can you see?"

"A playground, next to the water," John closed his eyes. "And picnic tables. Like a park."

"Can you see buildings, baby? A town?"

John shook his head. "No, just trees and the water and the road."

"This side of the lake?"

"Too good to be true," Dean said, pushing the accelerator down again. "Five kids she's got in that van, guess bathroom stops are essential."

"Lucky for us," Ellie agreed, pulling out the map of Utah and opening it. "Okay, I've got it, there's an off ramp on the other side of the town, the Lincoln crosses the lake just before it. Some kind of rest area."

"Can we get to it from the back?"

"We can but we'll be slowed down some going through the town. Better off to stick to the interstate and go in hard and fast from the front. John'll see her moving if she gets done before we get there anyway. She doesn't know us – doesn't know the car."

"Yeah."

In the morning sunshine, the salt-riddled flats and marshes were iridescent and sparkling, the deeper water beyond reflecting the washed-out blue of the sky, the range of mountains to the north the only delineation between sea and sky. The traffic was light, and Dean moved from lane to lane, seconds ticking away in his head, the engine growl and the hiss of the tyres over the concrete the only sound in the car.

He saw the off ramp and changed lanes, looking into the mirror at John.

"They still there, John?"

John nodded. "They're at the table. She gave them food."

"Good." He looked at Ellie. "How do you want to play it?"

She leaned back in the seat. "John, can you see how close the table is to the restrooms?"

"Not far. The car park is nearly empty," he said slowly, seeing through his sister's eyes. "The restrooms are next to it. The table is close to it too." He looked at her. "I can see the numbers and letters on the front of their car."

"Close then," Dean said, easing off the accelerator as he looked for the entrance.

"Park nose in and open the trunk," she said turning back to John. "As soon as we get close to the table, I want you to open the window and yell for Rosie to come."

John nodded, wide-eyed.

"We'll try and cut her off, from the kids and from the van," she added to Dean. "And hope there's no one else around."

He nodded, and saw the rest area's gravelled parking lot, turning slowly into it. Rosie could give the game away if she recognised the car, he thought, as the gravel popped and crunched under the tyres. He could see them now, a woman and a group of children sitting at the table near the edge of the lot, his daughter's bright copper curls blazing in the sunshine. One other car was in the lot, and a dark-haired man was sitting at a table with a blonde woman further away.

"Stay in the car, John," he said pulling up and turning off the engine. "Don't move."

Ellie opened the passenger door and slid out, moving around the car to the trunk as Dean opened it and got out. She had the torches ready for him, a blanket hiding them and they peeled to either side of the car, walking unhurriedly toward the table ahead of them.

The mother had watched them stop and get out, most of her face hidden behind large sunglasses. Dean could feel her eyes on them as they got closer. The children were eating sandwiches, heads bowed over the table and he resisted the impulse to run straight for Rosie and grab her, slowing down and changing direction slightly, veering a little closer to the table as he looked at Ellie.

"Damn, forgot the cooler," he said. She shrugged and half-turned back to the car as he backed a little from her, another foot nearer the table.

Then John opened the window of the Impala, sticking his head out.

"Rosie!" His high-pitched voice split the quiet of the picnic area and Rosie's head snapped up, her eyes widening as she saw her father close to her.

Dean threw the blanket across the table at the woman and lit the blowtorch in the same movement, the modified nozzle sending out a three-foot gout of flame as he ran toward her.

Ellie crossed the distance to the table in two long strides, lifting Rosie off the bench seat and grabbing the other girl next to her. "Rosie, get in the car. Come on, everyone in the black car."

The children scrambled off the seats, following Rosie and Christina to the Impala, as the woman dodged behind the table, her shrill scream filling the area. Ellie moved around the table, her blowtorch lit as she stepped between the woman and the last little boy, the long flame reaching greedily out toward the changeling mother.

"HEY!" The other man had risen to his feet, his blonde companion clutching at his arm. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He started forward as the mother baulked in front of Ellie and Dean closed the distance between them.

"HEY!"

The mother turned to him. "Help me! Please, help me!"

Dean swore under his breath and held down the trigger, sweeping the eruption of fire up the back of the mother as Ellie moved to intercept the dark-haired man.

"Jesus Christ!" He stopped in shock as the mother caught alight, the scream drilling into their ears until it was cut off when she fell into a pile of ash near Dean's feet.

"You killed her," he turned to Ellie, his eyes wide and staring.

"She was a monster," Ellie countered prosaically, cutting off the gas to flame thrower in her hands and walking to the pile to look down at it. She looked at him opening and closing his mouth.

"Those children were kidnapped from Oregon," she added, pulling out an FBI badge from the inside pocket of her jacket. "Go back to your table, everything's under control here."

He turned slowly, catching sight of his companion who was lying on the ground by the table.

Dean looked at Ellie and cut the gas from the nozzle. "Time to go."

She smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I think so."

* * *

_**Grantsville, Utah**_

The Grantsville police were astounded when they turned up with the children. The APB had only come in on the wire that morning from Bend and they lost no time calling the parents and organising a bus to take them back to Oregon. Ellie left Dean to handle the paperwork and took Rosie and John to the bathroom, checking Rosie and washing her face and hands. John wouldn't let go of his sister's hand, and Rosie stood as close to him as she could.

"We're going home now," Ellie told her softly, kneeling on the floor and hugging both of them tightly.

"Can we have burgers for lunch?" John looked at her hopefully. Beside him, Rosie nodded solemnly.

"Why not?" she said, smiling at them as she walked to the door.

Dean picked up Rosie when they returned to the front desk, John clinging like a shadow to his side as they walked back out to the car.

"Sam called. He's in Idaho; he'll be here by tonight," he said to Ellie, putting Rosie into the car seat and buckling her in. "You going back the way we came?"

"Yeah, it's direct." Ellie nodded. "Taking it a bit easier than we did coming out here, I can still be home before morning."

Sam and Carl arrived just after sunset, parking Ellie's white pickup next to the black car and getting out as Dean and Ellie walked toward them across the grass, Rosie in the crook of Dean's arm, John trotting alongside his mother.

"You made good time," Dean said approvingly, grinning at his brother. Sam shrugged.

"Had to happen sometime. I filled up just outside of town."

"Did you get hold of Laney?" Ellie lifted Rosie's car seat into the rear seat of the pickup and tightened the belts. Dean lifted Rosie into it as John scrambled over the seat and did up his seat belt on the other side.

"Yeah, Jeremy's out on something else but Steve and Charlie will meet us in Pueblo." Carl said, watching Dean buckle his daughter in.

"Pueblo? What happened to Boulder?"

"Frank called. Asase Ya has been moving south," Sam said.

"Should have this wrapped up in a couple of days then," Dean said dryly. Sam snorted.

"Give or take a week or two."

"Right." Dean turned to Ellie as the two men walked to the Impala. "I'll see you when I get home."

She looked up at him, smiling. "Don't go aggravating that goddess, Dean."

"Me? Nah," he said, pulling her into his arms. "Just a nice lullaby to send her back to sleep this time."

The kiss was light, yet complex and he felt the deepening tremors in himself and in her, letting her go when they started to get too much.

"You gonna take the kids back to school?"

She shook her head. "I'll get Frank to fudge something up for me. I think we'll take the rest of the week off and stay home and count ourselves lucky that it all wasn't a lot worse."

He nodded, turning his head to look at the children. "Yeah."

Losing an unborn child had been bad enough. Losing either Rosie or John was the promise of pain he never, ever wanted to visit. He ducked his head, resting his cheek along hers.

"Be careful," he said very softly. He felt the slight lift of her cheek against his.

"I always am," she reminded him.

"Not always," he said, letting her go and stepping back as she opened the door and swung herself up into the seat.

Ellie wound down the window, and leaned out, looking at him. "That goes double for you, you know."

The pickup engine started as he nodded. Life was precarious and getting worse, he thought, watching her back up and turn the truck, rumbling away out of the lot. He thought the last couple of days had probably aged him another ten years. There were things he could handle and things he couldn't, and now, he knew exactly what all of those things were.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

"I don't believe it," Chasina looked down at the flat, silvery surface of the water in the bowl in front of her. The nephilim was very tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, smooth dark skin gleaming in the reflected light of the bowl. Black hair, cut short, framed the large, dark eyes and inhumanly perfect features.

"Don't believe what?" Idra walked lazily behind her, peering over her shoulder. The son of Baraquiel had the heaviest build of all of the firstborn, a man with the frame of a titan. His hair was similarly cut short, the dark red tipped by silver as the light caught it. They watched the small white pickup drive along the wide road, headlights piercing the darkness. "What is it?"

"Two of the Winchester children. With their mother," Chasina leaned closer to the surface. "Unprotected. Alone."

"I'll get Maluch."

"If we leave now, we can catch them past Winnemucca. There's nothing really but wilderness." She straightened and turned, raising her voice as he left the long, cool tile and marble room.

Maluch was still smarting from his last encounter with Dean Winchester, she knew. Her sister, Reuma, as well. They hadn't been able to find any of them in the last six months, and Maluch had reluctantly come to the conclusion that wherever it was the hunters were living, it was protected from their sight too well. But here … here on the open road they were visible and obtainable.

She turned away from the bowl, long coat tails swinging out, and hurried through the rooms to the paved courtyard at the front of the huge house. To her eyes, the walls were alight with sigils and wardings, hiding them effectively from the full blood angels they knew were attempting to find them, from their own kind, and from their fathers.

None of them had known of the council's decision until last year, when Maluch had finally found one of the Others skulking in the desert in Jordan and had retrieved the information from him. She remembered sweet, kind Elessa, Azazel's daughter. It was only after she'd been killed that Azazel had begun the campaign against humankind, she thought. He'd always been a meddler but he'd never gone very far, regarding his meddling as a joke, something to while away the centuries after he'd fallen. After Elessa's death … he'd changed. And some of the things he'd done had been a reflection of his pain and suffering, of his desire to see that pain inflicted across the world. And Mikel, the son of Amaros, had been the strongest of them all, the only one who'd ever been able to keep them together. He'd been his father's loudest advocate for humanity's evolution.

She pushed the memories away, running lightly down the broad, shallow steps to the charcoal grey four-wheel drive sitting to one side of the big courtyard. _As ye sow, so shall ye reap_. The thought flickered against her consciousness and vanished.

* * *

_**I-80 W, Nevada**_

Ellie glanced back into the rear seat. Both Rosie and John were sleeping, leaning against the sides of their seats, hands loosely curled in their laps. The last couple of days would take their toll on both children for a few more days, she thought.

Katherine had called earlier. The changeling Rosie had been burned up when Dean had taken out the mother. She hoped that the parents of the other children hadn't been watching the changelings at that moment, because it would probably send them into therapy for years. She'd been wondering on and off all day if the changeling mother's interest in the little school had been sparked by Rosie and John, but she thought not. Changelings weren't interested in anything other than feeding. They had little else on their simple agendas. It had just been bad luck that it had chosen the school. The mother certainly hadn't been expecting hunters on her tail.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that wheels were turning, wheels within wheels, weaving the lines of destiny around them for some unknown and probably terrifying purpose. Dean had developed a healthy paranoia about the machinations of the universe in the last few years, with good reason. She'd told him once that if they were drawn into the power plays more often than others it was because they were needed, a part of the checks and balances God favoured so much. But recently, she'd thought there might even be more to it than that, some deeply laid, long-hidden plan involving them for no discernible reason, for a god's reason, one that they might never know. The idea sent a shiver down her spine. Being noticed was something no hunter wanted. Being noticed meant being in the firing line. And they had so much to lose now.

Losing Paul, then finding out she could no longer conceive another child … those had been blows that she'd barely understood, not for herself, not for the wracking pain that had come with them. It was clearer now, she thought, no less painful, but clearer. And she knew she wasn't alone in that pain. What had hit her when she'd seen the changeling in the compact's mirror had been something else entirely. John and Rosie were their children, the tangible and independent results of a love that she couldn't survive without, but more than that, they were themselves, people she loved for themselves, even if no biological bond had been present. Losing them … she let the thought hang unfinished. It was not an option.

She straightened a little in the seat as she saw the twinkle of Winnemucca's lights ahead, pushing her thoughts aside and burying them under the considerations of fuel and food, distance and time.

* * *

_**Highway 191, Utah**_

"So, where're we doing this?" Dean asked, flicking a glance to the hunched up figure beside him.

"La Junta," Sam replied, pushing back against the seat as he tried to straight his legs. "She was in Colorado Springs, but started moving south again, so I called everyone and we're meeting in Pueblo."

"Ellie said that we need to burn the circle into the soil. The charred earth will hold her."

"That's good to hear. Frank had nothing on how to keep her in place while we did the incantation," Carl said, leaning forward and resting his forearms along the seat back.

Dean did the distance calculations in his head. "We'll be there a bit before sunrise. What about the others?"

"Dwight and Bezaliel were right behind us when we left. Idan and Oran as well," Sam said.

Carl nodded. "And Steve and Charlie have been driving since Frank gave us the heads-up. They should make it by midday tomorrow."

"Did Frank say if we could see this chick?"

Sam snorted. "No, more like a force of nature than an actual entity."

"We'll know where she is because it'll feel different, Tamsin said," Carl added. "The air will taste and smell different, richer, like a … winery or a brewery almost. And things will be growing fast enough to be able to watch them get bigger."

"That won't be creepy at all," Dean remarked sourly. "Anyone say how fast she moves? What we need the perimeter to be?"

"From the last movement, Frank said it was about four miles per day."

"Well, that's nice and slow."

"Yeah, but a sixteen square mile circle is still no joke," Sam looked at him. Dean shrugged.

"We'll figure it out when we get there. See if we can get the local fire department to help out."

He scratched at the back of his neck, shifting his shoulders, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of his nerves there. Was that a leftover from the last two days, he wondered, or something new? The prickling sensation faded a little and he narrowed his focus to the dark road ribboning ahead of them.

* * *

_**Highway 95, Nevada**_

Ellie looked again into the rearview mirror, a small crease between her brows as she tried to locate the source of her unease. It had started as she'd turned onto the highway and left the lights of the town behind them, getting stronger and then fading away over the last twenty miles. She was alone on the highway, nothing behind her and nothing coming the other way and she wasn't sure if it wasn't just a hangover from the reactions of the last two days that she hadn't yet dealt with.

She looked down at the speedometer, pushing on the accelerator a little more to take their speed up to seventy. _No one knew exactly where they were_, she thought, _it had to be the reactions_.

She'd made another ten miles when the headlights appeared behind her, and her nerves started to jump a little again. Keeping an eye on them in the mirror, she pushed the truck's speed up to eighty, her concentration narrowing down to the road in front of her and the lights that were getting slightly larger in the mirror, every time she checked them. When another set appeared, she felt a jolt run through her nervous system.

An ordinary citizen driving this road at night wouldn't be going faster than she was, she thought. And cops would have had their lights on by now. So whoever it was, it wasn't good. And there was nothing now until she got close to Burns, over the state line, mountain ranges and forest and salt flats to both sides. She chewed the corner of her lip, watching the lights behind her, increasing the speed to ninety. The headlights were still growing larger. Whoever it was, they were determined to catch her.

There were numerous trails leading off the highway, but she didn't know them, didn't know if they went all the way through or dead-ended in the forest that covered the eastern flanks of the mountains. Being trapped wasn't an option, not with two small children. McDermitt was a few miles further north, and she wondered if she'd be able to make it before they caught up, find someplace she could defend if need be.

The high beam flashed into her mirror and into her eyes and she reached up, flicking the mirror downwards, catching a glimpse of the big car behind her. Too late. They were here.

She watched one of the cars pull out into the oncoming lane, speeding up to flank her, the other one getting close behind her and she shut down the speculations and questions completely. When the car to her left moved ahead slightly, she wrenched the wheel over, braking and accelerating until she was also in the oncoming lane, behind it, then braking and watching the two cars fly by, taillights bright red as they braked. The one to the left drifted out and she accelerated, shooting through the gap between them as they slowed, the accelerator pressed hard to the floor, and the speedometer climbing steadily as she shifted fast through the gears. The pickup was no muscle car, the diesel engine was working hard and she could see the clouds of black smoke she was leaving behind against the brilliant headlights of the cars. There was a skirmish as they straightened up and came after her again, the engines much more powerful than the truck's.

This time the car behind accelerated fast behind and rammed into the truck. Ellie braced herself against the wheel and checked as Rosie and John were thrown forward and back against their belts. She looked at the car again, and hit the switch on the dash for the rear spotlights, sending a wall of white light backward onto the car, lighting up the grill and showing the punctured radiator where the front had hit the tow bar at the rear of the pick up. The car slowed as the driver was blinded and the pickup surged forward, leaving it behind. How long would it take to lose their coolant, she wondered.

The other car was creeping closer to her, and Ellie flicked a glance in the mirror, looking at John.

"John, move over next to Rosie and get the centre belt on, baby."

He undid his seat belt and slid across the seat to the middle, buckling up again quickly.

"Okay, Mommy."

"Okay, hold on tight, this is going to get bumpy for a bit," she cautioned them, looking to her left. She could see Maluch's face, outlined by the dashlights of his car and felt her heart sink, her hand scrabbling in her bag for the SIG.

The four-wheel drive kept pace as she accelerated, two or three feet from the side of the truck. Ellie braced the wheel with her knees, yanking the gun from her bag and winding down the driver's side window at the same time. The retort of the gun was loud and she watched as the four-wheel drive skewed away from her then back toward her as the flattened tyre pulled it and Maluch fought with the steering wheel. She fired three more shots into the side of the car, aiming for the nephilim, but knowing that the chances of hitting them even at close range were remote from a moving vehicle. The car veered toward her again and she wrenched the wheel left, the pickup's quarter panel hitting the side of the four-wheel drive and shunting the car away. Instantly, she pushed the truck up to a hundred as they came into a series of short bends, apexing the corners and hoping like hell nothing was coming the other way.

The two cars were left behind and looking into the mirror, she let her out her breath, not quite daring to hope that she'd got away.

"You two okay?"

"Yeah. We're okay," John looked at Rosie who nodded. "Mom, that was so cool!" John's voice was filled with admiration and Ellie closed her eyes briefly.

Light flooded the interior of the cab again from the rear and she turned to look behind them. Both cars were coming up, the shower of sparks from the right hand front of the leading one indicating that it was being driven on the rim.

_Goddammit_. She looked at the road ahead. There was nowhere to get off, nowhere even to stop. And the temp gauge on the dash was starting to rise. That last hit must have crimped a pipe or caused some damage to the engine that she wasn't going to be able to repair in a hurry.

She saw the turnoff to the left at the last minute, hidden behind the slight curve and took it, the pickup's tyres spinning frantically as they left the tar and hit the gravel. In front of her, along the road, the headlights lit up the thick forest.

Behind her both cars had overshot the turn and had to reverse back the highway to get onto the track. Ellie turned off her lights as she entered the edge of the forest, leaning forward and slowing down as much as she dared to pick out the detail of the lighter coloured road and keep them on it. She could see the cars behind her, moving much more slowly now that they weren't sure where she was, and when she came to the fork, she breathed a sigh of relief, turning right and coasting down the long incline that followed, the truck bouncing over the washouts and rocks. _Try following me now_, she thought, looking back over her shoulder. The road behind her was dark.

It wasn't a solution, she knew. In the truck, she had limited options and she couldn't hide. Without the truck, she'd be stranded here with Rosie and John. Even if they could hide themselves well enough to avoid the nephilim, it would only be a matter of time before she'd have to get them out, find water, find food and a way home. And the highway was the only major road back into Oregon around here. It would be easy for the firstborn to sit somewhere along it and wait for her to stumble into them.

How the hell had they found her? She pushed the thought aside for the moment. There was no way of knowing and speculating would only rob her of the energy she had and needed to get the three of them out of here.

* * *

_**I-70, Utah**_

"What's wrong?" Sam looked at Dean worriedly.

Dean frowned, tilting his head back a little as the prickling got worse on the back of his neck.

"I don't know. Something's going wrong," he said. "Call Ellie, Sam."

Sam pulled out the phone and hit the speed dial, lifting it to his ear as he listened. He shook his head. "Out of range. Went to voicemail."

Dean thought of the long stretch between Nevada and Oregon where they hadn't gotten a signal. She'd be past Winnemucca now, he realised, and on that stretch. It wasn't like the last time she'd been in danger, a steadily escalating sensation that had gone from a warning to pain in the space of a couple of hours. Maybe it wasn't to do with her.

Sam's phone rang and all three of them jumped, looking at it.

"Yeah?" he answered. "Okay, we're about eight hours out. Yeah, listen, all you guys alright? No problems? Okay, good. We'll see you there." He closed the phone and shook his head. "They're not having any problems."

Dean felt another surge through the nerves at the back of his neck and shifted forward uncomfortably. What the hell was going on?

* * *

_**CR 793, Nevada**_

The flash of light from behind her made her turn her head fast. "John, turn around and watch the light behind us, honey, I need to know what it's doing."

John turned around and looked out the flat rear window. "I think they're driving this way slowly."

_Magic tracking device or just stopped at the fork and saw her tracks_, she wondered. Her eyes had become accustomed to the level of light and she could see the track clearly in front of the truck. Why the hell hadn't their suburban four-wheel drives bottomed out on the washouts? She could feel the suspension of the truck struggling with the holes and lumps in the road, the cars following her should have been wrecked by now.

_Well, they're not_, she told herself acerbically, _so figure out a way to get away from them before they pick up the back of the truck in their headlights_.

"Mommy, I think they see us," John said suddenly and Ellie looked in the mirror, seeing his face clearly lit by the distant lights.

"Okay, sit down and tighten your belt, baby," she said, flicking on the lights and shifting up. The truck bounced along the road, and Ellie watched the cars behind them getting closer again. They hadn't changed the tyre, she knew, and the coolant must almost be gone by now.

On cue, one of the cars stopped, and she sped up, seeing figures crossing the lights and piling into the other one. Oh well, one down at least.

The driver seemed to have taken it as a personal insult, because the remaining car was coming for her much more quickly. The road was rising and falling, running mostly straight and she stared ahead, looking for a way to get out of sight, to get ahead far enough to be able to hide.

The forest ended and she drove out into a bare, open area, looking at the undulations in the landscape that she could see, the eroded dry watercourses that seemed to criss-cross the bare earth around them. Here and there rocks pushed through the thin soil and the tyres thrummed loudly as she drove over a flattish section of rock, pitted and lumpy where water channels had carved their way through the soft sedimentary stone.

The headlights were getting closer and she pushed the truck faster, hanging onto the wheel and checking behind her at the children constantly as they jumped and bounced over the rough surface, losing what was left of her night vision every time she turned.

The first hit was on the corner of the tray. _Learned their lesson about the tow bar_, she thought sourly, braking and accelerating as the car behind attempted to push her forward. The track had gone, and she was breaking trail for them, moving more slowly than they needed to. She saw the car speed up a little and increased her speed, turning sharply to avoid a shallow gully that had appeared in front of her, watching as the car veered close to the edge and teetered there before the driver pulled away, the weight and torque of the heavy car dragging them clear. She saw the line of darkness ahead, but couldn't focus on it as the car hit them from behind again, the sickening shriek of metal on metal and the smell of burning rubber as she braked against the push filling their narrow world. He was moving up beside her, and she knew the next push would be sideways, into one of the shallow washouts, or up against a rock, where she wouldn't be able to get away from them, and she slammed her foot on the accelerator, wrenching the wheel right to force the car away, not seeing the darkness open up in front of her.

The truck's engine revved suddenly into the silence as they left the ground, and Ellie's attention snapped back to the front, looking at the blackness that yawned in front and below them.

"Hold on!" she said to John and Rosie, feeling the truck rolling slowly over, the weight of the engine pulling them down nose first but the tilt corkscrewing them as they fell. Above, she caught a glimpse of the nephilim's car, on the edge of the ravine, headlights shining out into the darkness. Then the truck hit the side of the slope and spun over, and she was thrown against the driver's side door, wind gone from the blow against the steering wheel, Rosie and John's screams filling her ears and they hit again, this time landing on the roof, the weight of the car pulling it down the steep slope and rolling it over again.

* * *

_**I-70 E, Colorado**_

Dean closed his eyes tightly, feeling his fingers bite into the steering wheel as the prickle became a searing burn, then was gone.

"What?"

"I don't know," he said, lifting a hand gingerly to the back of his neck. "For a second it felt exactly like Montana, then it just disappeared."

_Distance_, he wondered? _How far did his connection to Ellie reach?_ They'd never even considered testing that. Maybe it wasn't even Ellie who was in trouble. He turned his head a little, but the nerves there were quiet and still. _What the fuck?_ He looked down at the speedometer, aware that the car was slowing.

If he turned around right now, it would be another ten hours to get Winnemucca. And Dwight and the others would have to tackle the goddess on their own. _And if something has happened?_ The voice in his mind asked tartly. _If Ellie's in trouble? Or injured? Or the kids are hurt?_

He chewed on the edge of his lip, aware that Sam and Carl were watching him, waiting for him to decide. If she'd been in danger, the pain wouldn't have disappeared, would it? He didn't know. His stomach was knotting with indecision. The ingredients for the spell to send Asase Ya were with them, he couldn't have turned around and left them to it anyway.

"Try Ellie's phone again, Sam," he said softly, pushing down on the accelerator reluctantly.

Sam dialled and listened, then shook his head. "Still out of range."

He nodded uneasily. They could try again closer to sunrise. She'd said she would home before then. If he still couldn't get her, he could at least leave everything the others needed to do the spell and peel out then. He hoped it would be soon enough. Going strictly on past history, it hadn't before.

* * *

_**CR 793, Nevada**_

Chasina looked down at the flames licking over the distant wreck at the bottom of the ravine.

"Perfect. We've killed two of the best prospects we had."

Maluch looked at her coldly. "We didn't kill them, she killed them."

Chasina stared at him, lips compressed tightly, then looked away. It didn't matter. The children of Dean Winchester had been the most promising to complete the circle, the bloodlines of Azazel, Amaros and Araquiel in them, precisely the lines and strength that were needed, young enough to be retrained, old enough to not require the extra effort of reassurances and lies.

She kicked at a rock on the edge, hearing it clattering down into the blackness below. The truck was a diesel, it was unlikely to explode, but the flames had filled the cabin now, lighting up the crushed body and she had no doubt that all three had perished. Hopefully before the fire, she thought, a moment's compassion for the children flickering through her mind.

* * *

"Mommy," John's voice penetrated her consciousness slowly. Ellie felt his hand on her shoulder and opened her eyes, lifting her arm and wiping at the liquid that seemed to be sticking her lashes together. Blood, she realised after a moment, and memory returned, driving her to sit up, stabs of pain in her chest, and leg advising injuries.

"John? Is Rosie alright?" She leaned forward, gritting her teeth against the pain and looked past him.

"I think so. She won't wake up," John said worriedly.

"What about you? Are you hurt? What hurts?" She looked at him, suddenly realising that she could see him, that there was a flickering light coming from somewhere.

"I bumped my head," John admitted, pointing to the lump that was still rising on the side of his head. "It's okay."

Ellie felt her heart contract at his words. His father's son.

"I think the truck is on fire."

_Yeah, it was_. The fuel was diesel, it wasn't likely to explode but they still had to get out of here before they were roasted. She gestured to John to move back, checked the SIG was back in her bag and pulling the straps over her shoulders, then slithering over the back of the front seat. She crouched on the floor in front of Rosie, watching her daughter's chest rising and falling steadily. She unbuckled the belt and leaned past John to open the rear door, acutely aware of the headlights shining into the night above them at the top of the ravine. With any kind of luck at all, the nephilim would think they were dead and leave. John climbed down onto the ground and moved a few feet from the truck as Ellie turned back to Rosie.

In the flickering firelight, she laid her fingers against the little girl's neck, feeling her pulse beating steadily and strongly against the pads of her fingertips. She lifted one eyelid and then the other. Both pupils were enlarged. Lifting Rosie forward she slid her fingers through the girl's hair, and found the egg-shaped lump behind and below her ear, from the wings of the car seat possibly. She gathered Rosie's limp form into her arms and slid down the seat and through the open door, dropping onto the ground in a crouch and heading in a straight line away from the truck so that they couldn't be seen outlined against the firelight, down the gentle slope. John walked doubled over beside her.

In the deeper darkness beyond the wrecked truck, there was a shallow gully heading more or less north. She resettled the backpack over her shoulders.

"John, stay very close to me," she said softly. "We need to go a little bit further, then we can rest."

"'Kay." He took a hold of the hem of her shirt, bunching it in his fist and walked beside her as she kept them to the gully.

* * *

"It'll take us hours to get down there," Reuma protested, looking at the steepness of the slope.

"Then it takes hours. We'll check that they are dead before we leave," Maluch said implacably, staring at her. "Chasina, you and Lazio fix this car."

He turned on the flashlight, playing the beam over the loose soil and rock at the edge of the ravine, and began to pick his way down. Reuma sighed dramatically and turned on her own flashlight, following him slowly. Behind her, she heard Lazio's curses as he tried to get the jack under the car.

Below them, the truck was burning steadily, a clear beacon to make their way to. She thought that they were all dead, leaving only the two Winchester men and the children of Sam Winchester as possible substitutes. In their search for those of the right bloodlines, they'd discovered a bit about the Winchesters. Their propensity for being in the right place at the right time. Their doggedness over seeing what they'd started through to the bitter end. She wondered how much they knew about their own histories, about the bloodlines and the great wheels of destiny. Probably not much, she thought. Humans had a very limited capacity for knowledge.

The slope was almost three hundred yards and several sections were covered in a loose scree, which Maluch had edged around. They reached the bottom and were able to see their footing more easily, the firelight aiding the flashlight beams. Reuma walked up behind Maluch as he pulled the passenger door open.

No charred bodies rested on the blackened seats. Or against the burned carpet on the floor. She heard the nephilim's breath hiss out.

"So." Maluch looked around the pitch darkness of the ravine's floor, his flashlight bobbing and jumping as the tension transferred from his arms to his fingers.

"Not dead," Reuma swept her light around the narrow space. "That's a good thing. They're on foot, and probably injured. We can catch up to them easily in daylight."

"We thought taking her on the road would be easy," he said bitterly. "Look how that turned out."

"On foot, with two small children, there's not much she's going to be able to do," she countered reasonably.

"Go up to the car," he said tersely. "Get the gear and tell Chasina and Lazio to get down here as soon as the car's fixed."

"What?" Reuma looked up at the steep slope they'd just come down. Maluch's expression froze her unvoiced complaint in her throat. She turned back and started to climb.


	15. Chapter 15 No Mercy

**Chapter 15 No Mercy**

* * *

_**Nevada**_

Ellie glanced back over her shoulder. The headlights were moving, back from the rim of the ravine. _Leaving_, she wondered? _Or pretending to leave?_

_Pretending to leave_. She'd seen the flashlights as two had made their way down the side of the ravine, seen them look at the truck. No matter what else she thought of the firstborn, they hadn't struck her as being particularly stupid. The lack of bodies was obvious.

_Which way?_ She was following the ravine, north-west. The highway was probably four or five miles to the east. There was another highway, a smaller one that ran up into Oregon, she remembered. The 293 was a little under forty miles to the west, running parallel to the 95, on the other side of the Trout Mountains and other smaller ranges. It was high desert country, plenty of game, but there would be coyote and cougar as well. She shifted Rosie in her arms, looking down at John. On her own, she could've been there in a couple of days. With them … it would take a week or more to cross the ranges and reach the road.

_Was there a choice_, she thought bitterly? The nephilim couldn't cross directly to the 293, they'd have to go the long way south or north to intercept her. And if they followed her on foot … she couldn't kill them, she knew. She didn't dare get close enough to cut out their hearts, didn't dare risk John and Rosie's lives that way. But she had four mags in her bag along with the SIG and she could certainly do enough damage to slow them down.

The country was hard; volcanic rock and desert and only a few permanent streams, although she could find enough water to keep them going. It would be cold. And she would need to find good shelter every night, to keep the children safe. She lifted her hand, rubbing her wrist over her forehead, feeling the dried blood crusted on her skin.

Abruptly she turned left and began to climb the steep slope. "John, hold onto me, okay?"

In the darkness she felt his nod rather than saw it. She couldn't risk a light until she was sure that the firstborn were not behind them, and her arm tightened around her daughter as she leaned forward, balancing awkwardly as her feet searched for the smoothest path upward.

* * *

_**Pueblo, Colorado**_

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the motel as the first rays of sunshine were just breaking over the hills to the east. He sat in the car for a moment as Sam and Carl got out, Sam going to the motel's office, Carl going to the trunk.

He hadn't felt the prickling sensation for fifty miles. Did that mean that everything was okay, he wondered? He opened the door and got out, going around to the trunk and lifting out bags as Carl met Sam at the room door.

Sam's phone rang as he opened the door and they walked in.

"Yeah, see you then," he said, closing it. "Dwight's just passed through Colorado Springs. They'll be here in an hour."

Dean nodded, putting the bag down and pulling out his cell. He dialled the house first, leaving the room as the phone rang and rang, feeling his nerves begin to twitch. When the answering machine cut in, he left a message and then tried Ellie's phone. It went straight to the out of range message. He left a message on her voicemail as well, and leaned back against the motel wall, closing his eyes, trying to work out what that meant. If she'd decided to stop and sleep, she'd have called. If she'd had any trouble, she'd have called. Any normal trouble, he amended, feeling his heart skip a beat.

Beside him the door opened and Sam looked out. Dean opened his eyes and turned to look at his brother, straightening instantly as he saw Sam's expression.

"It's on the news," Sam said and stood back to let Dean walk past.

On the screen, the footage showing was obviously shot from a helicopter, circling the ravine, hovering and the cameraman managing to zoom in a little before the changeable wind forced the pilot into moving again.

The white pickup was clear at the foot of the crevice however, blackened on one side from the fire, crumpled and destroyed like a toy thrown by a petulant child. He stared at the television as the film changed to a reporter talking to a cop, the crime scene tape flapping furiously behind them, a number of men kneeling on the ground at the edge of the frame looking at something.

"_Have any bodies been recovered, detective?" The reporter was young, dark-haired and pretty, her bobbed hair flying wildly around her face._

"_Not at this time," the detective answered, his tone surly as he glanced away from the reporter at the men behind him. "We have what looks like it might have been some sort of pursuit from the highway to this point, and from the condition of the truck there may have been contact between two vehicles. We do not know anything further."_

The news report cut back to the anchor and Dean stood and watched the man at the desk open and close his mouth, emitting meaningless sounds.

Carl leaned forward and turned the television off, his gaze cutting from Dean to Sam. Sam looked at his brother.

"I'll come with," he said, taking a step closer. Dean blinked and turned his head slowly to look at Sam. He shook his head.

"No. Get rid of Asase Ya. That's your priority," he said, picking up one of the black canvas duffles from the floor. He unzipped it, checking the contents, then closed it back up, fingers tightening around the straps.

"The cops seem to have some idea what went down, I'll start with them." He turned around. "She'll be trying to get north, get home …" his voice trailed away for a moment, then his eyes refocussed on his brother.

"Was it the firstborn?" Carl asked hesitantly.

"I don't know," Dean said shortly. "You got everything you need?"

"Yeah, we're good."

"I gotta go."

Sam nodded as Dean turned abruptly for the door, wrenching it open and disappearing through it.

Carl stared at the open doorway. "Is he going to be okay?"

"If he finds them, and they're okay, he'll be okay," Sam said softly. He didn't need to finish the other side of the equation.

* * *

_**Nevada**_

The small hollow on one side of the washout cut the cold desert wind and Ellie had cut a dozen clumps of sagebrush to add height and thickness to the crumbling clay walls, the broken outlines of the bushes hiding them from sight, the strong scent covering their own. She lay in a curve, Rosie and John tucked against her for warmth, her arms enclosing both of them and the thin blanket from her bag covering them all against the chill of the night. She couldn't sleep, her eyes moving ceaselessly over the terrain surrounding them, but through the couple of hours of remaining darkness only a jackrabbit had passed close by them.

Rosie had regained consciousness when they'd reached the first ridge top, stirring in her arms. She was reasonably sure that there was no concussion – the little girl had remembered her name and their address and her birthday and John's, her eyes, nose and ears had been clean and the lump at the side of her head had gone down a little in the intervening time.

She'd already considered travelling primarily at night, and sleeping through the day. The bare, open ground would make them visible from long distances in the daylight hours and she needed them to remain hidden for at least a couple of days, travelling over rock and gravel that would leave no tell-tale traces of their passing. Once they'd reached the mountains they could be more cavalier about it, move faster, the cover would be better. But for the next day at least, she would have travel in the daylight, until the children became more used to what they were doing. Tomorrow night the moon would start wax again, she hoped it would help.

Rage burned inside of her brightly. Rage at the attack on her children. Rage at the arrogance of the firstborn. Rage at the untenability of her position. No matter which way she went, she was taking them into danger and the knowledge was eating at her like acid. It was locked down, locked away as deeply as she could manage, the emotion too destructive and irrational to be allowed out while the first priority was survival and getting home. But she had already promised herself retribution once John and Rosie were safe.

Dean would know something was wrong as soon as he tried to call and got no answers. She caught her lower lip in her teeth as she considered his possible options. There weren't many. Given a decently detailed map of the area, she thought he'd probably figure out which way she was heading and why, but he was in Colorado and it would take him time to get here, time to figure it out. She shut away her knowledge of what he would feel. It didn't help.

Her eyes opened a little more widely as she saw the first lightening in the sky to the east, the darkness paling incrementally, revealing the shapes and details of the ground surrounding them, of the bushes drawn around them.

There was a click of rock on rock, a little further up the washout, and she froze, cold stiff fingers feeling for the grip of the SIG, slipping it free of her jacket under the blanket.

"She could have gone in any direction, Maluch," a woman's voice said tiredly. Ten or fifteen feet away, Ellie thought, no further, the sound carried in the clear, cool air.

"She knows we'll watch the highway to the east. She will try and throw us off her trail first, then head for another road," Maluch said certainly, his voice coming and going as if he was looking around.

"There are no other roads, not for miles," the woman's voice snapped. "And we are spread too thin to find her in this maze of mountains as it is."

"Reuma, she is alone, with her two small children. How far do you think she can get?"

"Winchester will know of it by now, those news teams have spread the crash all over the media."

"He is not our concern," Maluch said tersely. "I will deal with him when we have the nine."

"He's a spoiler – and you know it," Reuma said quietly. "Everything he and his brother have been involved in has broken the chains."

"Then it would be best if we find this woman and his children and leave him with nothing, wouldn't it?" The nephilim's voice held a whiplash of anger.

"Alright," Reuma's voice was resigned. "Which way?"

"North. She'll keep trying to head north," Maluch said, his words almost drowned by a clatter of gravel spraying over the rock as he turned.

Ellie listened to them moving away from the washout, along the ridgeline, she thought. It was a help to know which way they would go, staying on the eastern side of the mountains, thinking she wouldn't stray too far from the highway.

She looked down to see John and Rosie watching her, their eyes open wide. "We'll stay here, silent, until they've gone a bit further away."

They nodded slightly and both curled closer to her.

* * *

_**US-50 W, Colorado**_

The car's shadow grew shorter in front of him as Dean drove west, passing Grand Junction just before midday. The radio was tuned to the news broadcasts, which had nothing else to report. He listened, his imagination on lockdown, and his thoughts churned as he tried to figure out how to find them. If it was the firstborn, and there was no one else it could be, he couldn't barrel in there and lead them to her.

"Cas, Castiel, I need your help," he muttered as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road, not daring to look at the passenger seat beside him. "Cas, please, I'm begging –"

The flutter of wings was loud in the car and he shot a sideways look at the angel.

"What's wrong?" Cas asked, seeing the rigidity in his friend's big frame.

"Ellie. She was driving home with the kids, and someone ran her off the road," he said, aware that his voice was harsh and low, a result of the effort of containing his fears. "I need you to find her – find them."

Castiel was silent for a long moment and Dean finally turned his head to look at him.

"What?"

"I can't do that," Cas admitted reluctantly.

"Why not?!"

"Michael has decreed that no angel is to be involved with humans again."

"So?" Dean asked, scowling. "That's never stopped you before."

"It's different now." Cas shrugged slightly. "I'm watched now, all the time."

"Then what the hell are you doing here now?"

"It's complicated, Dean."

Hearing the note of apology in the angel's voice made him realise that Cas was hiding something – again.

"Bull!" He made an effort to loosen his grip on the wheel. "What's going on?"

"Michael told me that I could not protect you or your family any longer," Cas said quietly. "He said that the orders had come from God."

"What? Why would – never mind," he cut himself off. "Cas, they're out there being hunted by those half-breeds –"

Castiel looked at him. "She's nearing the foothills of the Trout Mountain range, near the border between Oregon and Nevada, Dean. That's all I can do for you."

"Don't you fucking bug out now," Dean snarled, head snapping around to look at the angel. "I need more than that."

"I cannot." Cas turned his head. "I can't go against the word of God, Dean."

The finality in his voice stopped Dean. His hands curled around the wheel as anger rose. He'd asked for help only a couple of times in all the years of knowing the angel, never for himself, only to save the people he loved. He'd _earned_ at least one fucking favour. But with angels it seemed like it was a one-way street. Michael had been quick to forget his gratitude.

"Don't ever – _ever_ – come to me for help again, Cas," he said through his teeth. "We're done, you understand?"

Castiel nodded unhappily. "I understand."

The sound of wings was subdued when he disappeared and Dean realised he was shaking. Goddamn angels were never around when you really needed them.

He shifted his thoughts to what Cas had said. The Trout Mountains ran up from northern Nevada into eastern Oregon. He racked his memories for the routes he'd travelled around the area over the years. Highway 95 was the way they came and went mostly, but there was another highway, further to the west. Would she go for that one? The nephilim would be watching 95, it was the quickest way back.

Chewing on his lip, he tried to think of anyone else who could help. After a few minutes, his palm slammed against the wheel and he dug in his pocket for his cell.

* * *

_**Trout Mountains range, northern Nevada**_

They walked slowly but steadily along the dry stream bed, staying off the ridges, heading due west as much as possible. By midday, they'd crossed a permanent stream and could see the rising folds and woods of the mountains ahead.

Ellie looked down at Rosie and John, walking stoically beside her. She'd had a few fruit and nut bars in her bag, the usual snacks for car journeys, and had given them those earlier. She would have to find something more substantial before nightfall. As they skirted an open meadow in the dappled shadows of the thin treeline, she looked at the trees and shrubs, noting the species. When they came across a small copse of alder, she stopped, pulling her knife from her bag and cutting several thin branches from the coppicing saplings, and bundling them together, and retrieving a longer, thicker branch from an old dead tree.

The next stream they came to was narrow but deep, with small trees overhanging it. In the shadowed areas under the banks she saw the movement of the fish, and they stopped. For fishing, dawn or dusk were the best times, but without hooks or line, she was relying on the midday resting period for the fish who were lurking out of the direct sunshine on the water. She stripped off her boots and socks, rolling her jeans above her knees and slipped into the water, moving very slowly over the stone bed. From the bank, John and Rosie watched silently as Ellie bent, her hands disappearing under the water and into the shadows. For a long moment she seemed to just stand there, unmoving, then she straightened and a big fish flew out of the water and landed on the bank near the children, flapping and twisting on the thin grass. A few minutes later another fish was tickled into complacency and thrown out onto the bank as well.

* * *

The tiny fire was smokeless, the flames consuming the dry wood entirely. John and Rosie were curled up, sleeping after their meal of roasted fish, the bony skeletons of the trout blackening in the ashes.

Ellie had stripped and smoothed the long alder branch, whittling tapered ends and a thick centre grip from the flexible stick. It wasn't as good as yew would've been but that tree needed a lot more water than the high desert could provide. It would do for the few days she would need it. She'd soaked it in water and bent it slowly, tying it into shape, and it was drying out near the fire as she worked on the arrows.

The straight branches had been stripped and smoothed, one end shaved into sharp points, the tips hardened in the fire, smoothed again and hardened again. She had no feathers or glue to make the fletchings but they weren't essential. She would be hunting small game – bird and rabbit mostly, she thought – and at the closest distance she could get to them. Unlike her gun, the arrows were silent, and silence was essential in the situation they were in. Gunfire, even distantly heard, could bring the firstborn down on them.

By moonrise tonight they would have reached the top of the first ridge, she thought. From there she would have a better idea of the terrain they needed to get across and if she was very lucky, the nephilim would either be using their flashlights to search or would light a fire to camp, and in the darkness she would be able to see them. Of course, they could stick to the valleys and gullies, but even then any source of light tending to spread out.

She finished the notches in the arrow ends and set them aside, pulling her backpack closer to her and clearing the ground in front of her to get everything in it out. It held the small medical kit from the truck and she opened that first, smiling as she saw the sterilised suture roll, and setting it aside. It would make the strongest string available for her bow. She had a couple more granola bars, a bottle of water, refilled now from the stream. Her knife, an oil stone, the SIG and four spare loaded magazines for it. Two guitar strings, bought for Tamsin two days ago and forgotten. She looked at them thoughtfully and set them aside as well. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. A bottle of over-the-counter painkillers. Wallet. Keys. Two hex bags and a supermarket canister of salt. A thin plastic rain poncho, still in its wrapping. A compact umbrella. Half a dozen ziplock sandwich bags tucked into a larger ziplock bag. Two large square silk scarves. Her lighter and a box of weatherproof matches, almost full. A small bottle of lighter fluid. A small digital camera. Her cell phone, showing no signal at all, she noted as she looked at it. Her flashlight.

Dean gave her a hard time for the number and variety of things she carried around in the soft leather pack but it was better to have things when you needed them than not, she thought wryly. He was going to have to agree with that in the future.

She picked up the umbrella and opened it, looking at the fine metal spokes that made up the frame. They were light and straight. She thought they might come in handy for something or other.

Putting everything back in the bag, she considered the next few days carefully. If they could keep out of sight and keep moving west, and if the firstborn kept going north, the gap between them would have widened enough that she could relax on that point and just worry about the hiking and the more natural dangers they would face, the difficulties of finding food and water and shelter. From what she'd seen already, it was going to be hard work crossing the mountains in any case, the slab-sided hillsides and upthrust rock formations would require a lot of going around rather than up and over. She would need to stay clear of the higher ground anyway, because the mountain lions were more likely to be lairing up there than in the valleys.

Cold would be their biggest enemy. And the weather. There wasn't much she could about either. She'd already turned on the GPS on her phone, knowing it was a risk – the nephilim could track her that way too if they thought of it – but Dean would almost certainly check that first and if he could see what she was doing, could get around to the 293 before the nephilim realised, they could be out and gone from under their noses.

* * *

An hour later, when John and Rosie woke, Ellie made a soft target with the blanket and tested the bow and the arrows. She made a few adjustments to the shafts, but was otherwise pleased with them. She'd spent a lot of time learning archery as a teenager, and had put the skills into practice on a number of jobs, using the small recurve bow and arrows made from Palo Santo, holy wood that had a similar effect on demons to holy water – with the added bonus that it burned them inside as well out. She packed up the blanket and slipped the arrows into the cover from the compact umbrella, fastening the Velcro ties to the shoulder straps of her pack, and put out the fire completely, spreading the ashes and covering the charred ground with dirt.

The children were rested again and they made good time up the side of the mountain, climbing slowly through the thick woods and increasing their progress a little more as the trees thinned out near the summit. It was full dark when Ellie stopped and checked the small, shallow cave under a rock overhang. The ground was dry and smelled clean, and she cut several spreading branches from the nearby shrubs to pull across the narrow entrance when they were all inside. Snuggling together under the blanket, she listened to their breathing settle quickly into the light, steady pattern of sleep and closed her eyes.

* * *

_**La Junta, Colorado**_

Sam drove down the wide main street slowly, swerving to avoid a car that had been stopped and left, parked in the middle of the street. People were walking down the sidewalks, some of them weaving and stumbling, as if drunk, others standing, transfixed by a shop window or another person. He turned his head to look at Carl.

"What the hell?"

"The air," Carl said wonderingly, smelling the rich, winey air that flowed into the car through the open window next to him. "Tamsin said that the air would smell different – maybe it doesn't just smell different, maybe it makes you drunk or –"

He stopped, looking at a couple on the hood of a pickup, stopped on the other side of the road, both naked and oblivious to the crowd that had gathered around the truck to watch them.

"Or intoxicated on creation," Sam finished slowly, watching the couple's writhings as he drove past them. "Call everyone; we need gas masks – or an alternative air source of some kind."

Carl nodded, opening his phone and closing the window.

They found the surplus store two blocks from the centre of town and took what they needed. The owner had passed out on the floor behind the counter, two women draped over him and Dwight had smirked as he'd passed by him.

"He won't mind, not today," he commented, pulling the mask over his head.

"We're not going to get any help from the fire department," Sam said when they'd returned to the cars.

"No. But we're not getting any flack from anyone either," Steve remarked, looking around. "Fire department keeps flamethrowers, all sorts of gear for starting backburns or practice fires. Carl, Charlie, Oran and me'll get over there, and start making our perimeter."

"How do we figure where she is, where the centre is?" Carl looked at him.

"No idea. City's got a total area of three square miles, figure we drive out another couple of miles from the last house, and start our circle. Looks to me like the effects are pretty strong here."

Sam nodded. "We'll set up at this end of Main Street."

Idan was looking around the street carefully. "Guys, I think the effects might be cumulative – the longer we're here, the more affected we get."

"Why?" Dwight looked at him, grizzled grey brows pulled together.

"Look at the street – this morning, most people were feeling okay enough to park properly, open their stores, go about their business … look at that tree," he said, pointing at a sturdy oak fifteen feet away, it's branches tangled in the overhead power lines. "Pretty sure the locals wouldn't have let it grow into the power lines like that, so it wasn't like that when everyone woke up this morning."

"Good point," Sam said worriedly. He looked at Steve. "Real limited window. Get the stuff and call as soon as the circle is finished."

"Gotcha," Steve said, jerking his head to the others. They got into Steve's truck and drove off. Dwight looked around at the people on the street and shook his head, looking at Sam.

"You start looking at me funny, and I'll deck ya," he said with a grin. Sam snorted.

"Grab the blood, we'll make the spell circle nine feet wide, over there." He pointed to the centre of the street under the traffic lights.

* * *

_**I-80 W, Nevada**_

Dean pulled into Winnemucca just past ten, feeling every minute of the sixteen hours he'd been on the road. He drove straight to the police station, pulling into the parking lot and killing the engine, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes for a minute. His head was pounding, and he flipped open the glove box, fingers scrabbling around in it without looking and closing around the smooth bottle of Tylenol, pulling it out and drying swallowing two of the tablets.

Baraquiel should have reached the 95 by now, he thought, waiting for the painkillers to start distancing the pounding. When he'd called the Watcher after Cas had disappeared, he hadn't even been sure that he'd agree, but he'd taken control of the conversation as soon as he'd heard what had happened, promising to get the others and head straight out. He had a way of seeing the nephilim when they weren't protected, and Dean wondered briefly if that was how the firstborn had picked up Ellie as well. The Impala had been protected by Michael five years ago. They obviously hadn't been seen in that or they'd have them on their tails going through Utah.

The pain receded a little and he looked over at the glove box, leaning across and replacing the bottle, and fishing out an FBI badge from the glove box. Now all he had to do was convince the local P.D.

* * *

"Special Agent Hammett. I need to see the detective in charge of the crash you had off the 95 this morning," he said brusquely to the desk sergeant.

The man stared at him and nodded, turning away and going through the door behind the counter to the bull-pen. Dean wondered what the hell he looked like to have gotten a response like that. Not good, he thought prosaically.

The sergeant returned to the counter, followed by the cop he'd seen on the television in the morning news report. In his fifties, the detective looked possibly worse than he felt, he thought, ketchup and mustard stains on his suit jacket speaking of hurried meals that were guaranteed to give a good case of heartburn later in the day, shadows under his eyes, the skin pouching and sagging, dark grey hair sticking up in all directions from being repeatedly run through by frustrated fingers.

"Help you?" The detective asked, and he showed the badge again. The man glanced at it and nodded.

"What do you want?" Grey eyes looked steadily into his across the counter, the tone of the detective's voice more tired than challenging.

"We got a tip phone in that the driver of the other car crossed into Oregon," he said quietly. "This year's model Lexus GX460, metallic midnight blue, custom paint, custom interior. Shouldn't be hard to find." He raised a brow at the detective. "That sound like it matches the samples you took off the pickup?"

The detective tilted his head slightly to one side, considering him. "It does, as a matter of fact. Anonymous tip, I suppose?"

Dean's mouth twisted up to one side. "Yeah, naturally."

"Anything else?"

"Car was last seen on the Oregon side, heading toward Burns, but might have turned around and be heading back here," Dean said, leaning on the counter. "I'm not here to make a collar, that's up to your guys. Just passing along information."

"Doesn't sound like the FBI," the detective said dryly.

"New policy." Dean shrugged. "Don't piss off local law enforcement."

"Yours? Or the Bureau's?"

"Mine."

The detective laughed. "Son, you look like hell. You want some coffee?"

"Wouldn't say no," Dean rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "One other thing, I need to get across to the 293 without going all the way around – any ideas?"

"Plenty. There're a million forest tracks over the mountains, not bad condition, you don't need a four-wheel drive for 'em." The detective gestured to the office. "Come on through, I'll get you that coffee and a map."

He nodded. "Just what I wanted to hear."

* * *

The roads and tracks were marked out on the map Detective Carlyle had given him and Dean sat at the small table in the motel, memorising the turns and directions as he ate a lukewarm burger and soggy fries from the all-night diner up the street. Ellie had turned on the GPS on her phone, and AccuSite had given him a location He only needed to figure out how to get there.

He wanted to get back in the car, keeping driving, but the fatigue that was dragging at him, the headache that hadn't disappeared, just packed into the cotton-wool of the painkillers, told him it would be a mistake. He was close now, and the back of his neck was prickling and itching constantly, but it hadn't flared up, hadn't gotten bad and he thought that Ellie was staying hidden, keeping herself and John and Rosie as safe as she could.

There was no one he would have trusted more to do it either. She had hunted on her own from fifteen years old, had trained herself in every way she'd been able to think of to survive. He couldn't imagine how that had been for her, and she very rarely spoke of those years, and never in much detail anyway. He'd asked her once and she'd claimed it was boring. He'd severely doubted that but she'd changed the subject adroitly and the opportunity hadn't really come up again. Or he'd forgotten about it.

He pushed the rest of the fries aside tiredly. She would keep them safe, all of them. There was nothing he could do about it until he got out there. He had to let it go or the tension would take this chance to get some rest as well.

Stripping off and showering, letting the hot water beat down on him as he tried to force his thoughts and emotions and doubts down and away, his mind briefly threw up the memory of driving back from Kansas, only to find that Adam had taken her. The terror and aching pain of the long drive back down there again. He leaned against the shower cubicle's wall and dragged in a deep breath. He'd known it hadn't been Adam, or at least not the conscious part of him, but it'd still been six months before he'd been able to look his half-brother in the face without wanting to kill him. He'd been five years younger and had been operating purely on adrenalin for the four days of driving, and he knew he couldn't take that kind of experience again.

He turned off the shower taps and stepped, grabbing a towel and drying himself as he walked back into the room. When he got to his bag at the end of the bed, he looked up and stumbled backward.

"Goddammit!" He stared at the angel, wrapping the towel around his hips.

"Sorry," Castiel said contritely, looking at the floor.

"How the hell you'd find me?" Dean yanked the bag onto the bed, pulling out clean clothes. "I'm still angel-proofed, aren't I?"

"Yes," the angel said, nodding. "I just thought this was where you would be, based on the speed of your vehicle, and the distance travelled and your physical state of well-being –"

"Right," he cut him off. "What do you want?"

Castiel looked at him. "I want to help you."

Dean's brows lifted. "I thought you were forbidden to help. The Big Kahuna and all that?"

The angel frowned. "I am. It doesn't matter."

"Just like that?" He couldn't help the sarcastic edge. There were too many speed humps in their history for him to be able to trust the angel the way he once had.

"We were once friends," Cas said slowly. "And I betrayed you and let you down. And it hasn't been the same since."

"Live and learn," Dean said neutrally. He was prepared to hear him out but to ask for more, he didn't think he could find that trust again.

"Yes. Live and learn." The deep blue eyes met Dean's. "I want to help, Dean."

* * *

_**Highway 95, Oregon**_

Chasina stared into the crystal held cupped between her hands, looking at the tiny image that lay in its heart. She felt cold and shivery.

"Get us up to the nearest high point, Lazio, I have to call Maluch."

The nephilim started the car and drove, watching the modified altimeter he headed south.

* * *

_**Somewhere in the Trout Mountains, Nevada**_

Maluch looked at the satellite phone as it beeped at him, lifting it from his belt and pressing the comm button.

"What?"

"They're here, they're com –" Chasina's voice broke and crackled and he scowled at the device, turning to walk higher up the steep, rocky slope.

"I can hardly hear you, Chas. Who're here?" he said irritably, pressing the handset more tightly against his ear, his free hand reaching forward to grip the rocks and pull himself up and over them.

"Our f –" The transmission faded out and came back, so strongly for a second that her voice blasted out of the earpiece and he nearly dropped it. "–on the highway now!"

"Repeat all after 'our', Chas," he said, turning around and looking east.

"They're coming, Maluch, at least four of them, looking for us!" Chasina's voice was suddenly clear and loud. "I've seen four cars, coming south along the highway."

"Who?"

"Our fathers, you bloody imbecile. Sariel, Chazaquiel, Baraquiel and Shamsiel – those are just the ones I've seen!"

"Could they have seen you, somehow?" Maluch looked down at Reuma who was struggling up the slope beneath him.

"I don't know. We're not protected here, not like at the house."

"Alright, calm down."

"You have to get back here, as soon as you can!"

"No, we have to keep looking."

"I'm not staying around here like a fucking stuffed goose while my father gets closer, Maluch," she spat, the warning in her voice explicit. "Haven't you seen the woman? What's taking so long?"

"I can see her clearly in the scrying bowl, Chas, the trouble is that one patch of woods looks very much like another and I don't know which patch of woods she's in!"

"You said you'd be able to find her and get the kids by now!" Chasina yelled into the phone. "You said it would be easy!"

"Well, I was wrong."

"No fucking kidding!" She shook her head. "We're leaving. I am not sitting around and waiting for them to find us."

Maluch closed his eyes. "Alright, go. Reuma and I will keep searching. When you get back, find a detailed map, and I mean really detailed, something that shows every goat track through here, and find another way to get us out."

He heard her take a deep breath on the other end of the line. "Yeah, right. I'll do that."

The call cut out and he put the phone back on his belt slowly, looking at Reuma as she climbed up beside him.

"What was that all about?"

"Our fathers are searching for us, along the highway," he said. "Chas and Lazio will return to the house. They'll be hidden there. She'll find another way to pick us up."

"And we're staying behind based on our spectacular success of finding the woman and her children?"

Maluch looked at her, and she looked away. "I've been searching for her too randomly. I will look at dusk. Look for the shadows' directions. She's still close, I can feel her. Something in her shines out."

* * *

_**Trout Mountains, one mile from the border of Oregon**_

It was the snap of the branch behind her that made her stop. She turned her head, seeing the thick, soft tawny coat against the grey-green sagebrush and pulled John and Rosie behind her, turning to face the brush, herself in between the big cat and the children.

Against the rock, it was almost invisible, spots and shadows on the coat blending seamlessly with the pitted and broken stone. But against the pale leaves she could see the shape of the blunt head, looking into the unblinking golden-green stare. It knew it had been made, but cat-like, it hadn't acknowledged that vexing fact yet. The long thick tail was still, except for the very tip which twitched a little.

The SIG was at the back of her belt, and her hand reached very gradually around her hip for the grip, her gaze shifting between the cat's eyes, and the twitching tail, thinking she'd get one shot at bringing it down if it attacked them. If she missed and it got within reach, she was going to have a hard time treating the claw wounds with what she had on hand.

Her fingers curled around the moulded grip as she saw the eyes behind the brush narrow and she yanked the gun clear, swinging the barrel around and aiming and firing in the one frantic motion.

* * *

_**Somewhere in the Trout Mountains, Nevada**_

Maluch bent over the small bowl, staring into its depths. The liquid filling it was just water, but it was thick and clouded as he concentrated on it. Second by second it cleared, becoming first a solid white then darkening to black. Against the opaque reflection he saw a narrow trail, leading upward through boulders and slabs of yellowish stone, spindly saplings interspersed by clumps of sagebrush lining both sides, clinging to the thin soil over the rock determinedly.

The woman stood still, her children behind her, staring fixedly at something out of sight. He concentrated on the details he could see, her shadow and those of the little boy and girl falling behind her, stretching long out over the rough ground. She faced west and the slope behind her rose steeply. She was on the western side of the ridge, the sun shining full on the mountain. He lifted his head and looked around, seeing the growing mauve and lavender and charcoal shadows deepening to indigo and midnight, the ridge on which they stood already shadowed by the higher ones further to the west.

At least one or more over, he thought, then his attention sharpened on the image as she drew something from behind her back, dropping into a half-crouch. The lion was mid-air when she fired, the first bullet hitting it in the chest, the second, in the throat.

The boom of the gun echoed through the mountains and he raised his head, meeting Reuma's wide eyes as she registered the sound and its meaning.

"She is close," she breathed and he nodded, tipping the water from the bowl and pushing it back into the small leather bag at his side.

"She's on a clear western slope," he added, and they both turned and started running down the slope.

* * *

_**Trout Mountains, one mile from the border of Oregon**_

Ellie straightened up, feeling her heart sledging against her ribs. Little bit too close, she thought, staring down at the glazed, dust-filled eyes of the cat. More than a little bit. She looked back at Rosie and John who were staring at the mountain lion as well.

The gunshots had sounded like cannon-fire, echoing off the hard rock walls and slabs. She could hope that the nephilim hadn't heard it, but she couldn't pretend to herself that they hadn't. She'd been moving steadily north as well as west through the night, and they could be on the next ridge or ten miles away and she'd never know which. Until they turned up.

"Come on, we need to hurry a bit more, find someplace to sleep tonight," she said to her children, thumbing the safety back on the gun and slipping back through her belt. John nodded and took Rosie's hand, and they followed her down the trail, climbing over the rocks when she started traversing the slope.

No more than an hour to full dark, Ellie thought. Rosie wouldn't be able to go longer in any case. She scanned the slope ahead, looking for any kind of place that they could hide in, defend if need be. This side was bare and open, even the sagebrush was scrawny and surviving poorly. Further down, there would be denser woods, she hoped. All the valleys and ravines had held riparian stretches, trees and undergrowth along the watercourses, even the dry ones.

* * *

_**La Junta, Colorado**_

Sam coughed a little as he breathed in the dusty, dry air through the mask, turning his head from side to side to see what he was doing, the goggles limiting his field of vision severely. He could see the smoke rising around the town, clouds of black and grey and white as Steve and Carl and Charlie burned the trap into the earth. He could feel a growing pressure, as if the atmosphere around them was thickening, the air getting heavier in some way. Did _Asase Ya_ know her path was being cut? Did she have consciousness? Thought?

_Doesn't matter_, he told himself, adding the gold dust to each of the twelve bowls that lined the perimeter of the blood-drawn circle. Behind him, Dwight was stringing out thin gold wire from bowl to bowl and twisting it into place. On the other side, Idan laboriously copied out the symbols of the spell, in between the wire and the bowls, the mixture of blood and bone and dirt and herbs drying quickly on his brush. Sam could just hear his muffled curses as he dipped his brush into the mix more and more to ensure each one was correct.

He tipped the last of the dust into the twelfth bowl and straightened up, and the ground shuddered under his feet. Staggering to one side, he looked at Dwight, seeing the older man's eyes widen behind the goggles as well.

"What the fuck was that?" Idan asked, his voice indistinct through the rubber.

Sam looked at him and tapped his throat. They all wore Frank's military throat mikes and ear pieces. The nephilim nodded, his hand diving into his shirt and his voice clear but tinny sounding in Sam's ears a second later.

"What was that?"

"I think the goddess has just twigged as to what we're up to," Dwight said dryly. He looked at Sam.

"Ah … guys, we've got trouble here," Steve's voice came through the earpiece. "We've finished the circle but we're getting company – a lot of company."

"What kind of company?" Sam asked, his heart sinking as he guessed what was happening on the outskirts of the town.

"Charlie, three o'clock," Steve suddenly shouted and they heard the sharp crack of a rifle in the background. "So far, we've got two rugaru, a big pack of skinwalkers and what I'm pretty sure is a rawhead coming towards us."

"Perfect. She's calling in reinforcements," Dwight shook his head. "Can you get back to town?"

"Yeah, we're on the inside of the circle, there's something funny going on with the air though," Steve's voice was fading slowly.

"Get to Main Street, now, drop everything and just get in here," Sam said urgently, feeling the deepening in the air pressure as well. He spun around and looked at Idan. "You finished?"

"Almost," Idan bent to paint another symbol.

"As soon as he's done the last one we're out of the circle and reading the incantation, right?" Sam said to Dwight.

"Yep," Dwight moved to the twelfth bowl and twisted the wire around it, feeling the pounding against his ears and nose, the pressure increasing more rapidly now.

Sam stepped out of the circle and grabbed the sheet of paper that Frank had given them. He ran his eyes down it, checking that the necessary preparations had all been done. His vision began to blur and he blinked rapidly, eyes screwing almost shut as he read through the words in his mind.

Idan finished the last symbol and the earth shuddered again, the street splitting open a few yards from them, the roller lifting and dropping them, setting off car alarms and burglary alarms down the length of the road. He dropped to his knees, hands pressed tightly against his ears and eyes squeezed shut. Dwight saw him and stumbled over to him, aware that something liquid was trickling over his lip from his nose, realising that it was his blood when he saw the bright streams coming from Idan's nose and ears.

He bent and grabbed the young man, tucking his arm around Idan's ribs and half-carrying him out of the circle.

Sam started to read, blinking away the red film that was starting to fill his eyes, yelling the words as his hearing began to fade out.

* * *

_**Highway 95, Oregon/Nevada border.**_

Baraquiel pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator. He'd been able to feel them, their essences strong and close as they'd driven south from Burns, now they were drawing away. Must have seen them coming, he thought, his emotions a strangely see-sawing mix of regret and fury.

It hadn't been what they'd wanted – any of them – but it had been the only way they could be sure that Lucifer couldn't use them to regain entry to Heaven. He remembered Azazel's face when he'd drawn the shortest straw, the agony in his eyes. He'd known that the angel would never be able to bear the loss and he'd been right. Azazel had changed profoundly when they'd buried Elessa. And that decision, that short straw had changed the course of history in so many ways, that even know it was impossible to track all the repercussions that had arisen from the single act.

Amaros had disappeared for a thousand years, leaving his human wife heartbroken and bereft of both husband and son. Mikel had been the oldest of the firstborn, a symbol of what they had been trying to achieve on earth, with God's blessings. He wondered at the workings of Fate that had decreed those two were the chosen ones.

_How had their children found out about the sacrifice, after all these years?_ Some had known, of course, though they'd always kept it from their children. _Well, the sins of the fathers were certainly being reborn in their children_, he thought sourly. He couldn't imagine what they thought would happen if they did regain Heaven. That the full-blood angels would welcome them into His House? Michael would raise the Host and destroy them out of hand before he allowed a single one of them entry. The Eighth Choir had been united on that issue, if not on any others. The half-breed children of the fallen were abominations and should have all died in the Flood, along with their blasphemous parents. It didn't matter to them that those who had chosen to fall, had done so with their Grace intact and the full approval of their Father.

_A moot point_, he told himself acerbically. They were fighting now, for the chance to return to a heritage they believed was theirs. And they needed the Winchesters, either the men or their children to achieve it. They wouldn't stop, wouldn't give up, wouldn't listen to reason or yield to force of arms. Not now.

Beside him, the cell phone rang and he picked it up.

"Yes."

"They're leaving, at least two of them," Chazaquiel's voice was thrumming with some emotion as well.

"Yes, they've left the ones who searching for Ellie in the mountains," Baraquiel agreed softly. "Dean said he would try and trap them when they get near Winnemucca. We'll follow them, press them hard to drive them into the trap."

"Do you think that will work?"

"They picked up Ellie along this highway, Chaz, they must have their base somewhere reasonably close, they were on her before she'd even made it to Oregon. I haven't seen Dean fail yet at laying a trap."

"What do you want to do if we do catch up with them, Baraquiel?" The dark-haired Watcher's voice was very soft.

"Bind them, ensure that they cannot do further harm until we have them all," Baraquiel answered. "I would like them to see what it is they crave."

"How can you?"

He heard the incredulity in his brother's voice and smiled slightly. "I think meeting Michael and Iophiel will probably be all they need."

There was a long moment of silence before Chazaquiel spoke again. "Michael will kill them if he's within range, you know that."

"Ah … well, I have an idea about that too."

"You have too many ideas, my brother," Chazaquiel said, a little bitterly.

"We are still alive, Chaz. And we have a purpose in our teachings again," he chided the other gently. "Was not that a good result of my ideas?"

"Shamsiel and Sariel are right behind me," Chazaquiel said after a moment, his tone returned to neutrality. "We'll catch up with you before Winnemucca."

The call cut off and Baraquiel closed the phone and replaced it on the seat. Chuma had been an engaging and adoring boy. He wondered if Chaz would feel so strongly when he saw how his son had grown to adulthood. They weren't bad or evil, he knew. Just misguided, knowing a part of the truth, not all of it. There was still time to change that.

* * *

_**Winnemucca, Nevada**_

"Can you find them, bring them here?" Dean stared at the angel.

"Yes. Ever since Raphael's attempt, Ellie glows with God's touch, his protection. I can see her clearly."

Dean leaned back against the nightstand. "Then do it."

The flutter of wings in the room was loud, stirring his notes on the table, and the angel had vanished.

Pulling on jeans and a plaid shirt, Dean stared at the spot where the angel had stood. He was going to have to apologise to the son of a bitch now, he knew. Not to mention feel gratitude, that again, the angel had chosen the Winchesters over his loyalty to Heaven, with all the inevitable repercussions that choice would bring down on them.

* * *

_**Trout Mountains, Oregon**_

Castiel appeared in the clearing and the sound of gunfire filled his ears. He looked around, seeing Maluch advancing slowly toward Ellie, his chest riddled with bullet holes and streaming with blood, Reuma lying over a rock a few yards away, one arm thrown out, her clothing soaked red through; Ellie firing continuously at the approaching nephilim, her aim sharpening as he closed with her, bullet after bullet punching through the heart and exiting in growing gory welter of flesh and blood and bone from his back. Behind her, John and Rosie were hunched together, hands over their ears and eyes shut tightly.

"Ellie!" he shouted over the booming of the gun, and saw her gaze flicker to him and return to the nephilim. He raised a hand and light began to fill the clearing, bright and clear and purest white, bleeding the colour from everything it touched, intensifying until the open space was devoid of shadows and hue and detail.

"Cas, take them to Dean!" Ellie had finally turned away from the light, her arm thrown up to cover her face, the silence as the gunfire ceased filled with the frequency of the light, too high to hear, nevertheless ringing as it burned.

"I'm taking all of you," the angel said tersely, striding to the children and gathering them in his arms, turning back to Ellie and reaching out for her shoulder.

Maluch arms were crossed over his face when the light began to fade and he saw the angel reach out for the woman. Rage, against his father, against the man who'd thwarted him once, against the woman who'd evaded him, against the angel who had no business interfering in this, held in for too long, exploded from him and he launched himself across the space separating him from her, his greater weight and forward motion knocking her backwards even as she was raising the gun again, as Castiel flickered out of view.

* * *

_**La Junta, Colorado**_

The ground rolled and lifted and shook, and every tree in the street, in the streets beyond and out through the countryside to the charred circle enclosing the town suddenly shot up, branches and twigs and roots and leaves growing and thickening and multiplying. The air was heavy and ripe and fecund with the scents and feel and energy of growth, every living thing in the twenty five mile radius doubled, and tripled and quadrupled its size, went mad with the need to procreate, itching with arousal, rutting and bellowing as blood ran from the noses and mouths, ears and eyes, smearing over skin and fur and scales and feathers.

Sam was screaming but he couldn't hear himself, hunched into a ball on the ground, his fingers still holding the blood-spattered paper tightly, his will keeping him reading though he could hardly make out the words through the blood and tears that poured from his eyes, tossed and thrown as the ground heaved and bucked and rippled under him.

The trees, which had been saplings that morning, were pulling down the power lines, the cables whipping and snapping and sparking across the road, killing any they touched, electrifying the car bodies and setting fire to the awnings that shaded the store fronts. Their roots pushed deep into the plunging ground, breaking through gas lines and water lines and sewerage lines and phone lines, buried beneath the street.

Sam wiped his eyes and screamed on, his body pulsing and throbbing with an ache that had long since passed from desire to agony, the only thought left in his mind that he had to finish, had to finish reading, had to finish what he'd started before he died.

* * *

_**One mile outside of Winnemucca, Nevada**_

The road was blocked in three zones. The outer most, at the first mile marker, had three lines of stingers laid across the highway one car-length apart. Five hundred yards from that were the cars, parked across the highway nose to tail. Behind them, officers with automatic weapons.

Bill Carlyle looked over them again and was reasonably satisfied. He still didn't quite buy the fibby's story, but he'd had his confirmation that a car matching the description that the agent had given him had rocketed through McDermitt two hours ago, and he was looking forward to locking up the driver and finding out what the hell had happened to the people in the pickup. The roads around the region were dangerous enough without some psycho asshole deliberately pushing another off them.

He saw the headlights round the bend at marker six, and watched the men settle in, safety's off, weapons racked and cocked, barrels lowered and aimed. Behind the first set of lights, he could see four more cars, all racing toward them at well over the posted limit.

The Lexus hit the first line of stingers and blew all four tyres out immediately. The shriek of the metal rims on the tar and flapping rubber were cacophonous as it hit the second and third lines, swerving violently from side to side as the driver lost any semblance of control.

The bank of spotlights above the police cars blinked into action, and filled the road with brilliant white light, and through the binoculars he held, he could see two faces, mouths agape in surprise or panic, a man driving, a woman in the passenger seat. The four-wheel drive lurched to one side of the highway and hit the gravel shoulder, starting to spin, the driver attempting to pull it out too tightly. Carlyle watched the car shudder and rise on one side, flipping over violently as the centrifugal force twisted it.

"Weapons ready. Do not fire until an order is given. Repeat, do not fire until I give the order," he barked out to the men, and nodded at the team who waited to one side of the blockade. They jogged out toward the car, weapons raised.

Carlyle looked at the highway and saw that the four cars that had been pursuing the Lexus had vanished. There were a few turnoffs along the highway beyond marker five, and he realised that his attention had been on the Lexus, not the other cars. He didn't think anyone had noticed them turning.

* * *

_**Winnemucca, Nevada**_

Dean heard the blowouts and the screaming shriek of metal over the tarmac and was just turning to the window when Castiel returned, setting John and Rosie down on the floor. He looked the angel, crouching automatically as they ran to him, his arms going around them and holding them close.

"Where's Ellie?"

Castiel shook his head and disappeared.

"Mommy was shooting, at the man, but he kept on coming," John said against his chest. "Cas nearly touched her then the man jumped at her and knocked her down."

Dean heard Rosie muffled crying, and the stiffness in his son's voice and picked them up, walking to the edge of the bed and sitting down, the two of them curling close against him as the fears and uncertainties and unknown tensions of the past few days washed through them.

Inside, he felt cold and empty.

* * *

_**Sand Pass Road, Nevada**_

Baraquiel drove steadily along the road, headlights off, following the turns and bends easily in spite of the lack of light. The trap had succeeded. He and the others would visit them in the morning, and bind them properly. It would drive the rest out into the open, he thought, they couldn't afford to lose too many, after all.

Behind him, his brothers drove easily in the darkness, their night vision enhanced by what they were. Or had been, once.

* * *

_**La Junta, Colorado**_

Something had changed, Sam thought incoherently, but he didn't know what. After a few minutes he realised that the ground was no longer moving. He lifted his hand and tugged weakly at the rubber mask that covered his head, sucking in a deep, copper-tinged breath as he finally pulled it off. The air was no longer thick. Or wine-rich.

His body no longer ached. Sitting up slowly, he wiped his hands across his face, looking at the drying, sticky blood that coated them. It had all been real, he thought. All been entirely too real. He looked at the cables lashing and twisting across the street, the bodies, blackened and still, scattered around.

A moan nearby dragged his attention over to Idan and Dwight, and he rolled to his knees and got up, walking unsteadily to them. Both were covered in blood, but were alive, eyes open, pulses visible against the skin of their necks, their breath rasping through the mask filters. He knelt beside Dwight, easing the man up and pulling the mask off. The older man immediately sucked in a deep lungful of air and let it out again, nodding his thanks to Sam.

Together they helped Idan to his feet, taking off the mask and supporting him while he breathed deeply, in and out.

"Need to get the power turned off," Dwight said, looking bleakly along the street. Sam nodded. All three turned at the chug of an engine behind them, turning around to see Steve's truck driving slowly toward them. Steve stopped on the other side of a twitching power cable, and leaned out the window.

"Know where the power station is?"

Sam looked at him, hiding a smile at the state of the man's clothes, knowing it wasn't funny, but needing the smile more than he needed the self-lecture on appropriate responses.

"Two blocks down and three over," Dwight called out. Looking at him, Sam saw that Dwight hadn't missed the torn and ragged shirt either, his mouth tucked in at the corners.

Steve waved and backed up, turning around when he had the room.

"They looked dishevelled," Idan said, wiping his face with the end of his shirt.

"They did indeed," Dwight agreed readily, his glance catching Sam's and the two of them bursting into laughter. Sam doubted that they would ever hear that story from the three hunters.

* * *

_**Trout Mountains, Nevada**_

Ellie rolled to one side as Maluch fell toward her, her shoulder still tingling from the brush of Castiel's fingertips. She'd just missed out, she thought, aiming the SIG at the nephilim's head. Dean would be furious.

She fired twice then heard the click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber, and Maluch shook his head, and got to his hands and knees.

"You have been infinitely more trouble than you're worth," the nephilim snarled at her.

She rolled over and up, fingers hitting the magazine release and the empty clip falling free as she pulled a new full one from her jacket pocket.

"You don't know what I'm worth," she said, slamming the fresh clip in hard, fading backwards as he stumbled toward her, the bullet wounds slowly closing up, the bloodflow slowing.

He laughed, the sound utterly devoid of humour. "I know that if I kill you now, Dean Winchester will break and I'll be able to take him as easily as his children."

Ellie stopped moving and smiled at him.

"You don't know Dean at all," she said, and the gun snapped up, the muzzle flashes blinding in the darkness, the booming retort continuous.

She swung around, sensing the presence behind and to one side of her as Reuma reached out for her, snapping off two shots into the woman's heart and another through her eye. The impacts at such close range knocked the woman backward and Ellie ran between them, gaining distance, turning and firing again as Maluch got up.

At this rate she was going to run out of bullets before she could do any damage, she thought acerbically, shooting a fast sideways look at the woman who lay on the ground.

She stopped shooting, and pulled the knife from her belt, walking back toward Maluch, every muscle and tendon and nerve stretched out and ready. _Take the heart and he'll die for good_. The thought was immediately satisfying.

"You don't know the full-bloods, Maluch," she said conversationally, as she got closer. "They loathe nephilim; they'll kill you if they even so much as think you're plotting to get back to Heaven."

"What would you know of angels or nephilim, human?" he sneered at her.

"More than you, apparently."

He was watching her narrowly, confused that she was moving toward him, when his gaze caught the glint of the knife in the darkness.

"Not so much as you think, if you hope to take my life," he accelerated toward her.

She shifted abruptly to the right, giving the impression that her weight was over that foot and he turned to intercept her, his long arms closing around air as she reversed to the left and swung around behind him, the knife driving through the ribs in his back, and the SIG pressed against the back of his skull, her finger pulling smoothly on the trigger. He dropped in front of her, and she fell forward with him, keeping her grip on the knife, and the end of the barrel pressed hard against the back of his head.

_Need two hands_, she thought distantly, and shoved the SIG back through her belt, shifting her knee on his back as she wrapped both hands around the hilt and levered the blade back and forth against the bones, hearing them crack and split, shift apart.

He rolled suddenly and she fell to the side, the knife still in her hand, his hand curved around her throat, pinning her to the ground.

"You're not that strong, human," he smiled down at her, and lifted his other hand, the fingers drawing together to form an arrowhead. "Let me show you how it's done."

The roar of wings in the clearing sent dirt and leaves and needles flying into the air and argentine light flooded the night. Ellie felt a hand grip her shoulder and the nephilim's weight was gone, the dust was gone, she was floating in darkness and then falling to her knees on pale beige carpet.

"Mommy!"

"Mom!"

"God, Ellie."

The voices were close and familiar and Ellie looked up, smiling at them as they surrounded her, breathing in their individual and mixed scents deeply.

* * *

_**One day later. The Willamette, Oregon**_

Dean stretched out on the bed, looking at the ceiling, washed in the pale gold light of sunrise like watered silk, then rolled over and slid his arms around the woman who slept beside him.

She'd given him a highly-edited version of what had happened, and he knew it. Cas had filled in some of the blanks, but John had been the most informative, his eyes shining with pride as he'd told his father the full details of what had happened once they'd left Winnemucca.

It had been hard to keep his expression neutral as he'd listened to his son's story, hard to keep his feelings from showing. He must have managed it, because John had gone to sleep with a slight smile as he'd pulled up the covers and turned off the light.

He'd debated asking her about it, specifically about the discrepancies between her account and John and Cas' accounts, then had decided against it. It wouldn't have helped her to tell him every detail – and it sure as shit hadn't helped him to hear them. Maybe it was better to just file it away as a job done and forget about it.

They couldn't forget about the firstborn, though. Baraquiel and his brothers had retrieved Chasina and Lazio from Winnemucca's small lockup, and bound them. They were currently in the Watcher's basement, presumably contemplating their sins. Baraquiel was convinced that the others would come looking for them, and for him and Sam, and their children. And they would take them whenever any of them poked their noses out of the woodwork.

He was less certain. Maluch was the leader, officially or unofficially, from what Chasina had intimated to her father. And he was emotional, immature, easily goaded. He would be more dangerous now, his plans fucked up twice.

He wasn't sure what to do about that, if there was anything he could do. Cas had promised to be there if he needed him. The angel had returned to Heaven, Dean hoping he'd been able to stay under the angelic radar coming and going.

In his arms, Ellie stirred and rolled over, her thigh sliding up his. He felt his breath catch as he looked down at her half-open eyes, the slow smile curving her lips. Her hand moved up his chest and he smiled back, desire pushing his thoughts aside, an electrical charge spreading out through him, following her touch.

* * *

**END**


	16. Chapter 16 Moonlight

**Chapter 16 Moonlight**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Ellie looked at John's knees, the top few layers of skin ripped off and gravel and dirt embedded in the raw flesh beneath.

"Again, how'd you do this?" she asked, looking at her son's face. He raised his eyes to hers, dry and clear.

"Turned the corner too fast just before the gate," he said, looking back down. The gravel patch, she thought. Icy at the moment, the mass of cold air from the north had snap frozen pretty much everything when it had come through last night.

"What happened?" Dean came into the kitchen and stood behind her, looking down at John's knees.

"War wounds," Ellie said. John looked up at his father with a slight grin.

"Came off the bike on the corner," he said, lifting his chin slightly. Ellie sighed. He was going to grow up exactly like Dean, hearing the hint of pride in his high voice.

"Pretty bad stack." Dean crouched down and watched Ellie as she soaked them, gravel and dirt coming off on the soft gauze with each application. "Who were you trying to impress?"

Ellie swallowed a snort. _Takes one to know one_, she thought.

John looked away with a one-shouldered shrug. "No one."

"Right." Dean stood up, and grinned down at his son.

On the wall of the kitchen, the phone rang, and he turned to pick it up.

"Yeah?"

He walked to the table and sat down next to John, frowning as he listened. "Yeah, slow down, Soleil …"

Ellie looked up, one brow raised quizzically. He looked down at her and nodded.

"Hang on, Ellie's here," he said, holding out the handset. "Soleil, something about a pack and needing help."

The Parisian-born, Louisiana-raised hunter had a tendency to sprinkle her conversation with French and talk at a million words per minute when she was excited. He'd understood about one word in three of the last few minutes of the conversation.

Ellie reached up and took the phone, tucking it between her shoulder and ear as she dipped another wad of clean gauze into the saline solution. "_Ça va_, Soleil?"

"Mm-hmm … _oui, il peut être là_, on, uh Friday?" She looked closely at her son's knees, satisfied that she'd gotten all of the dirt out. Patting them dry, she looked around for the antibiotic powder. Dean passed the tube to her. "How many? And how many victims now?"

The yellow powder filled the divots and cuts and tears in the flesh, and Ellie put a clean pad of gauze over each knee, taping them firmly. She nodded to John, who got down from the chair and wandered over to the fridge, and picked up the debris of dirty gauze, water and wrappings.

"What do you mean, random? Uh, _aléatoire_?"

Dean looked around at her, as she walked past him to deposit the bowl in the sink and the wrappings and pads in the trash can.

"Friday – how many have you got with you now?" she asked, leaning against the counter. "No, it's fine, eh, _très bien_, really. Yeah, okay. _Au'voir_."

Dean watched her cross the kitchen and hang up the phone. "What was that about?"

"Werewolves." She glanced down at John and back to Dean, and he nodded.

"Where's Rosie, John?" Ellie asked, opening the fridge and taking out hamburger patties, lettuce, tomato and cheese.

"Playing with Laura," John looked up. "We having burgers for lunch?"

"Yep, go and find your sister," Dean said, and watched him race out the door, scraped and gouged knees forgotten. He turned and looked at Ellie.

"Okay, werewolves – plural?"

"Apparently," Ellie said, turning on the stove and getting out a flat-bottomed pan. "Five, they think, working together."

"Where?"

"Jasper, Texas." She put the patties onto the pan and turned back to the counter, slicing tomatoes and onions. "They're not sticking to one territory – or the territory is much bigger than usual. They've had kills up to twenty five miles in every direction and she needs some help to bring them down."

"So we need to be there by Friday?" He flipped the patties as they browned.

"You need to be there by Friday," Ellie corrected him. "And Sam."

He turned slowly to look at her. "No. Uh-uh. Sam can go, and Twist."

Ellie sighed softly. "She needs at least one good shooter, Dean."

"Then Carl." He looked back at the pan, flipping the burgers again as he saw smoke rising. "He's alright, he needs the practice."

"Carl's in Maine," she reminded him, setting out the bread rolls and spreading butter over them. "Twist, Dwight and Katherine have gone to Iowa."

She laid lettuce and slices of tomato and cheese over one side of the rolls, stepping back as he lifted the cooked burgers from the pan to the rolls. "It'll be fine, nothing will happen."

Dean scowled at the pan. "That's what we always say, and something always does."

John and Rosie came into the kitchen and Ellie squirted ketchup over their burgers and handed them the plates, watching as they carried them to the table and sat down to eat. She picked up her own plate as Dean turned off the stove and moved the pan.

"We'll talk about it later, okay? Can you check if Sam is free to go anyway?"

"Yeah," he said, taking his plate and following her to the table. "I'm not going to change my mind about this," he added in warning.

* * *

"Sam can take off tomorrow," Dean told Ellie as he stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile beside the bed, watching her as she nodded absently, her mind clearly on something else.

"Bezaliel's been training Sima and Tagi on the M40. Says they're pretty good, about eighty percent, both of them," he added casually.

Ellie looked at him and smiled. "Eighty percent isn't good enough, not for this job, and you know that."

He looked down at the covers and dragged them back.

"It doesn't matter anyway, because that's not really what's needed," she said, sliding into the bed and leaning on one elbow to look at him.

"And that would be?"

"Leadership," she said and he turned to look at her, brows drawing together slightly.

"Soleil's been running that crew since – ever since you've known her," he said. "She's good."

"Yeah, no argument, she is," Ellie agreed. "But for this, and for what's coming, she needs someone to help too."

"I'm not – that's not – I'm not a leader, Ellie," he stumbled over the words uncomfortably.

She smiled gently. "Of course you are, you always have been."

He shook his head. "I'm more of a … contractor … I do my bit, that's all."

Ellie burst out laughing. "Oh … no, Dean, you listen to what everyone else thinks and you come to a decision and that's the way it goes. You're not a contractor."

"I don't do that." He frowned at her. "You're the one who's usually making the decisions."

"Really? Which major decisions have I made for all of us, Dean?" she asked, a slight smile still curving her mouth.

"Uh … most of them," he hedged, trying to remember the last few things they'd organised. "Like, uh, moving up here, all of us …"

"Hmm … as I recall, I found the development, and we came up and looked around and you said, let's do it."

He looked away. That did sound familiar. But there had to be other times … he hadn't decided … he thought about the last couple of years … had he?

Watching his expressions flicker over his face, Ellie shifted over closer to him and laid her hand against his chest. "Generally speaking, we get the information, Dean … and you make the call."

He hadn't seen it like that, he thought. It hadn't felt like he was leading anyone, calling the shots and taking the responsibility for it all. He looked down at her. Possibly because he didn't feel like he was alone in it.

"You and Sam, you really didn't see much of what happened with the other hunters over '09-'11, Dean," she said quietly, looking up at him. "The rumours and the way they'd shifted, aligning with you or against you both."

He hadn't. He'd heard a couple of things, from Bobby, or Rufus. From Ellie too before she'd left them. From hunters who'd tried to kill Sam or him or both of them. They'd seen the 'against' hunters more than the others.

"For the ones who knew what had happened, it was like … watching a legend being born," Ellie continued softly, eyes half-closed as she remembered the bars and hangouts, the muttered conversations that would stop whenever a door opened, or anyone new showed up. "I'm not sure who put around the first of the rumours about you and Sam, but it spread like wildfire. That you'd been chosen from the beginning of Time to save the world from the Devil, stop the Second War in Heaven, close the door of Purgatory and kill God's first beasts –"

Dean looked down at her disbelievingly. "That's a favourable slant on what happened!"

"A little, perhaps," she agreed. "There were a lot of hunters who didn't believe it. They'd heard from demons that you and Sam broke the seals, released Lucifer and were to blame for everything that followed. But they were always in the minority."

"They were mostly right," he remarked sourly, only a hint of bitterness tingeing his voice.

"No, they weren't. And anyone who'd met you two knew that anyway. Everyone who'd met your father knew it."

He drew in a deep breath. "Sam and me, we did break the first and last seals, Ellie. You can't get around that."

She rested her cheek on his shoulder and he felt it lift slightly as she smiled. "Leaving out Heaven's machinations again?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do," she said. "It didn't matter. By the time Cas had gotten over his God-complex, nearly every hunter still alive had run into the Levis and knew what you were up against. And they all thought you and Sam would be the ones to take them down. And they were right."

He laughed uneasily. "Had some help with that."

She lifted herself onto her elbow, and looked at him. "Almost everyone who's left looks to you, Dean. To call on if they need help. To figure out what to do next."

"But no pressure, right?"

She grinned at him. "None at all."

"I don't want to leave you," he said, gesturing vaguely around the room. "You and John and Rosie, it kills me to leave you."

"I can't leave them alone, not now."

"No. I know." Both children were having nightmares, the changeling and the nephilim and even the mountain lion had left their scars. They were easing, slowly, but they needed their mother, close by, reassuring them that they were safe, and home, and loved. They needed him too, he thought, but they could cope with him gone, just not both of them.

She'd done it again, he thought, without rancour. Changed his perspective, changed his mind and he knew he'd be leaving tomorrow, driving down to Texas with his brother to help Soleil with hunting a werewolf pack. He rubbed a hand over his face, letting out his breath.

"We hunted three once, in Cincinnati. Dad, Caleb, Jim and me," he said, the memory barrelling into his mind. "They were territorial, stayed where they'd worked."

She nodded. "Soleil said these are moving around, but that's not like werewolves – or any other canine for that matter. They choose their territory and stay."

"Yeah. Five of them together, how'd they all get bit?" He was already turning over the problems in his mind and he smiled inwardly at the transition. When it came time to leave, he would feel the same reluctance, the same desire to stay as he always did. But he'd go anyway.

"You win," he sighed, looking at her. The expression in her eyes wasn't triumph or smugness or elation. It was … sorrow, almost, he thought. She'd convinced him to go when she didn't want him to, convinced him because it was needed, not because she wanted it.

He slid his arm around her, drawing her close, and bent his head. The touch of her lips against his sent a charge through his nerves, starting low and racing out until his skin was hypersensitised, and every touch reignited desire, escalating detonations that kept building but never seemed to be too much, only not quite enough. Slow tonight, he thought vaguely, slow and deliberate and drawing every sensation out to the furthest they could bear. It wasn't something that needed discussion, it was something he knew. When they were together, his radar, that peculiar combination of observation and intuition that had always been highly tuned to the opposite sex, was at its most sensitive and he could tell, from the way she exhaled, or how much pressure was exerted when her fingertips pressed against him, or some other tiny and insignificant change in her that he didn't even know how to describe, what she wanted, and how and where and for how long. It was the only time he really knew, really felt, inside his own skin, what she was feeling, and she had the same ability to feel him, all the parts he usually kept hidden, all the things that he usually didn't acknowledge … she could do that anytime, not just when they were wrapped around each other.

He heard her indrawn breath as his mouth trailed over her skin, heard his own whistle softly between his teeth as her fingers slid along the edge of a muscle and smiled slightly, breathing in her fragrance, looking into her half-closed eyes, tasting, touching, every sense involved and all of them feeding back to desire, to the growing, aching arousal that inevitably dictated how long either of them could last.

He'd wondered, once, if he would find being with one woman boring, in time. If familiarity would take the desire away, leaving only perfunctory intimacy and habit. He'd had a wide range of experiences, of partners, and it had seemed like a valid concern at the time. He'd been surprised to discover that it was never the same, that he couldn't seem to get over how she looked and felt and tasted and smelled and sounded, that no one else could come close. He hadn't even looked at another woman since Lydia, not in the same way, hadn't seen them as _women_ in some bizarro alchemy of the mind, or the heart. They undoubtedly were, but he saw people now, not blonde or brunette or redhead, not tall or short or stacked or curvy or pretty or beautiful or any of the other labels he'd been accustomed to using over the years to file away his experiences. They were people he talked to, interacted with, made decisions about … and just one woman in his life who was beautiful and arousing and perfect and … his.

Muscles contracted and he dragged in a deep breath, hearing the groan on the tail end distantly, a wash of pleasure flooding through him, her shaky, ragged breaths turning him inside out. He slowed down as much as he could, feeling the exquisite drag, his pulse throbbing everywhere, hers a little faster, making a double beat in their tightly-joined, blood-engorged flesh. Slow is smooth, smooth is … _fucking unbelievable_, the thought rebounded against her moan, deep inside, her hips lifting high to meet him, and a temblor somewhere around eight point nine hitting him, shaking him, rocking him where he was, rippling and squeezing, wrapped up in heat and pressure and silence, not hearing his own cry, his brain shutting everything non-related down and focussing on the white lightning that sizzled right the way through him.

It was impossible to feel this every time. Impossible to not die of it. Tremors shook them and he felt her shudder again, head thrown back as she arched up under him, the softness gently lapping him and that sensation forcing him deeper, forehead pressed against her shoulder as his arm tightened around her, his breath hot on her skin, hers huffing against his hair. _Boring? Uh … no_.

* * *

_**I-40 E, New Mexico**_

_**2 days later**_

"How much further?" Sam turned to look at Dean's profile, outlined against the flat desert landscape, and brilliantly blue, cloudless sky that stretched out forever.

"Another fifteen hours, maybe a little less," Dean said, staring straight ahead. "We'll stop at Amarillo, get something to eat."

Sam nodded, stretching out his legs uncomfortably. He could take over the driving there, get them down to Dallas.

They'd kept their conversations over the last couple of days lightweight and personal, no speculation about the pack or the hunters, not even a discussion on the over-arching problems of the firstborn and the increase in the monsters right across the country, right across the world according to Ellie and Frank, just keeping everything low-key. Dean had learned the trick from Ellie and had passed it onto him, to not waste time or energy or chew up the nerves thinking about things that had no answers yet.

"You remember much about the hunt we did with Dad, Caleb and Jim, in Cincinnati?" Dean flicked a sideways glance at him.

Sam grimaced. "I remember Dad being in a god-awful mood for two days and reaming you out for something," he replied.

His brother smiled. "It wasn't that bad, Sam."

Sam frowned, trying to remember more about the hunt. "You took down two of them, didn't you? With Dad's long-range rifle?"

Dean nodded. "One behind Caleb, up on the roof; the other one as it was going for Dad."

It had been a fantastic moment, looking through the scope and seeing the big silver bullet punch through the creature's chest, stopping it cold before it'd reached his father. It had also been the first time he'd realised that his instincts were somehow sharper, more tuned in some unfathomable way, than his father's or Jim's or Caleb's. He'd known that the creatures had been closer than they'd thought. He just hadn't trusted that sense.

"Did Dad ever find out why there were three?" Sam asked.

"They went through the building, Dad and Caleb, after we got Jim to the hospital," Dean said, brows drawing together as he dragged out the details of the memory. "The one that went for Dad was the son of the company's owner, I think. He was turned on a camping trip or something, and ended up turning two of his friends who worked there." He shook his head slightly. "Dad figured that's why they used the company's buildings as the hunting – or at least, the killing – grounds, because they were familiar with it."

Sam nodded. It might be the same for the pack they were driving toward now. Friends … or work mates? He pushed the thought away, recognising that the questions wouldn't have answers until they got there.

"You did a great job in Cincinnati, Dean. Dad should've said something."

Dean looked over at him, mouth lifted on one side. "You never got that, Sam. Not even once."

"What?"

"I did my job. That's it," Dean said, flexing his fingers around the wheel. "That was the best thing – that I could do it, what I wanted to do. I didn't want it to be something special, like it was a surprise that I could do it. Don't you remember how Caleb was?"

"Mmm … but I thought that was just him," Sam said, thinking back through his memories of the quiet, competent soldier who'd become a hunter and a contact for his father with the military, acquiring all sorts of things that John had wanted or needed. "He never said much about anything."

Dean laughed. "Oh, he did, when it wasn't about the job. But when it came to the job, he just did it and he'd get insulted if you tried to make something of it."

Sam looked at him. Dean had known their father's friends a lot better than he had. He'd been older; he'd been out of school and hunting with them all the time. He'd never seen his brother grieve for Jim or Caleb, after Meg had killed them. Hadn't really seen his father grieve either. They must have, he thought. Just kept it to themselves. The Winchester way.

"You still miss them?" The question came out on its own, he hadn't realised he wanted to know.

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah. I miss everyone we lost, Sam. Don't you?"

Sam thought about it. "I tried not to think about it, for a long time. That didn't work so well." He shrugged. "Trish knew them too, we went through a lot of stuff while you and Ellie were in Last Chance. I don't know if I miss them or if I'm glad they're out of it. I kept thinking … if things were different, if it hadn't played out the way it had, and then I realised that if it hadn't happened just the way it did, I wouldn't have what I have now."

He looked out the window, brow wrinkling up as he tried to think of how to explain that strange juxtaposition of relief and his feelings of guilt about it. "It doesn't sit all that well to think that."

He felt his brother's gaze on him and looked around. Dean's smile was twisted up ruefully to one side, understanding in his eyes.

"Yeah, know the feeling, Sam," he said quietly, looking back at the road in front of him. "There are parts that I'd change, if I could do it without screwing up everything that came after, but even if I could go back and change it all, I wouldn't. Not now."

Sam leaned against the glass and sighed. That was the big difference in Dean, he thought. His survivor guilt had gone.

* * *

_**Jasper, Texas**_

Dean pulled into the small town after eleven, following the instructions and driving through the centre, taking the second gravel road after they'd passed out of the limits, bumping along in the darkness, the headlights throwing the thick forest surrounding them into two-dimensional flatness.

The compound was only a mile and a half down the road, and he saw the gates ahead, slowing down and pulling over next to the intercom, wired to a post by the side of the road.

"Anyone up? We're here," he said tiredly, releasing the button. There was a sharp squeal from the box then a voice, male, scratchy, also tired-sounding, came from the speaker. Sam glanced up and saw the small camera pan and stop on them.

"'Okay, we got you. Drive through." A crackle of static. "Take the left when you come to the barn. House is behind it."

The iron bar and mesh gate rolled slowly to one side, and he drove forward slowly, hearing it close up behind him. The road went a little further, tightly lined on both side by trees, then opening into fields as he headed for the cluster of buildings visible now in his headlights.

He took the left past the barn and pulled up in front of a huge antebellum mansion, turning off the engine and shaking Sam's shoulder as he saw a couple of figures coming down the broad, stone steps toward them.

Getting out of the car, he recognised the man on the left, had met him a couple of months ago when Soleil had come up to Oregon. Red O'Riley, a big man in his early fifties, thick, flaming red hair heavily threaded with silver now, bright blue eyes crinkled up in humour, fair skin reddened and peeling over his nose and cheeks. He didn't recognise the young woman on the right.

"Good to see you, Dean." Red extended his hand and clapped Dean on the shoulder. "This is Ginny Connelly," he said gesturing to the woman beside him. Dean nodded to her, looking back at Red.

"Where's Soleil?" he asked, hearing Sam's boots clumping up the steps behind him.

"She's inside, still up, waiting for you boys." Red grinned past him. "How you doin', Sam?"

"Hey, Red. You still look old, man." Sam smiled impudently as he stopped behind his brother.

"And you're still too tall, kiddo," Red retorted.

They followed him in through the wide front door, looking around. The house, and the land it sat on, had been cheap a few years back, and Soleil had bought it when the combination of the global financial crisis and Lucifer's rising had driven them to find an affordable base they could fortify. It had fourteen bedrooms in two wings, with an additional servant's wing at the rear, enough room for the team of hunters she'd found and kept with her, and the gracious dimensions of the downstairs rooms were more than adequate to accommodate the group's research library and network rooms, living and eating areas and even provided a gun-cleaning room and the conversion of the old ballroom into a training space. It was one of three places she and Eddie had bought and renovated in the south over the last ten years.

When they'd first realised that the monster populations were being affected, Ellie had come down with Frank and Katherine. Frank had set up a secure network. Adina, the tall, slender daughter of Shamsiel, had stayed on. Adam had been down here for months now, learning to handle all different kinds of weaponry, tactical planning, security and computer skills.

"Where's Ellie?" Red looked at Dean as they walked past the dimly lit rooms, heading for the kitchen.

"Home," Dean replied, feeling the other man's curious gaze on him.

"Heard about what happened," Red said, nodding. "All alright now, though, yeah?"

"Yeah."

The kitchen was enormous, bigger than most commercial kitchens, a vista of cream wall tiles, polished stainless steel countertops, black and white octagonal and diamond tiled floor, scrubbed pine tables and freestanding dressers and cupboards. At the largest table, Soleil sat with a man in his forties, the bright white overhead lights gleaming on dark skin and white teeth as he looked up and grinned at them.

Soleil Couchard was thirty-eight, a tall woman, as lean as a cheetah. She got up and walked to Dean, holding out her hands and dropping a kiss on each cheek in greeting, her short, spiky dark brown hair showing a hint of the curl that would have been there if it had been longer.

"Thank you for coming, _cher_," she said quietly, gesturing to the table and chairs for everyone to sit. "Frank sent us the update from the federal databases an hour ago, but we don't think it has a bearing on what we're seeing here."

"Sam, you know Eddie, yes?" She turned to Sam with a smile.

"Met in Oklahoma," Sam nodded, leaning over the table to shake Eddie's hand. "Lucky for me."

Eddie laughed softly. "Oh those boys, they were the least of it, Sam."

"Yeah, took me a while to figure that out," Sam acknowledged dryly, sitting down.

Dean looked at Soleil. "What've you got so far?"

"Five of them, moving around the county. I'll show you the detail in the morning; for now, they've been hunting every full moon, three months this month, we have three nights left. They are _ombres_, yes? Shadows, ghosts. They strike, two, once three in a night, take people from their cars along the roads. Take the hearts, leave the rest. The local, uh, police, are chaotic with it."

He looked at her. "You've tried decoys?"

"_Oui_, yes, of course," she wrinkled her nose. "They knew, somehow."

Eddie leaned forward. "They do not take anyone local. Just visitors, most under thirty years of age."

Dean glanced at Sam who was frowning. "Werewolves aren't that picky."

"Not usually. These are not usual in any sense of the word," Soleil agreed, her light grey eyes shadowy as she looked at him. "They leave no hair, no fur, fibre, prints – either canine or human, hand or foot – they work four, five nights, before the moon has reached her pinnacle, both waxing and waning. They do not care how much noise they make – one attack was close by a farm, and they woke the owners with the screams of their victims, disappearing before the police could get there." She gestured abruptly toward the window. "Adam, Callie and Jim are out there tonight, looking, but fifty square miles is a lot of roads to cover. Jasper has many roads running through it."

She looked at the table and waved her hand. "Eat, and sleep. We will work this out in the morning. We have two more nights for this month."

Cold cuts, bread, cheese and salad covered one end of the table and Dean and Sam helped themselves to plates as Soleil and Eddie picked up the files and left the room. Red turned to watch her go, then looked at Dean.

"Eddie said you're pretty good with a long-range rifle, Dean?"

Dean looked up from the bite he'd just taken from his sandwich and shrugged. "Not bad."

The older man's mouth twisted up to one side. "Not sure if we can pen these things into anywhere that'll come in use, but good to know."

Ginny sat across the table from him, watching them. "Caleb told me he taught Dean Winchester to shoot."

Dean looked at her in surprise. She wasn't old, he thought, looking more closely at her. Maybe thirty, but too young to have known Caleb, surely. Her hair was a dirty blonde, cut short around her face. The big, light-green eyes were watchful, older than her years.

"You knew Caleb?" Sam asked around a mouthful of food.

She glanced over at him. "Yeah, when I was a kid. He came to our town on a job, stayed at our place. Told me a lot of stories about hunting, and," she added, looking back at Dean, "a family by the name of Winchester."

Dean swallowed, exchanging a glance with Sam, who grinned slightly.

"Caleb was a good friend," Sam said, taking another bite. Dean looked back to her.

"And yeah, he taught me to shoot."

"Must be good then," she said casually. "Caleb took out a nest of ghouls on his own."

Dean looked at Red, who was smiling slightly at the young woman. "You want to fill us in on the setup here, Red? Soleil seems to have a lot more hunters than the last time we were here."

Red rubbed his knuckles over one cheek. "Yeah, we picked up a few here and there."

He sat down and helped himself to a roll, splitting it and filling it. "There's Ginny here. She came down with Jim Olsen, when was it?" He turned to her, brow raised.

"Ten months ago," she supplied, turning back to Dean. "We both lived in a little town in Tennessee, hard by the mountains, and one night it was … I don't even know what to call it … there was a pack of skinwalkers, they just turned half the town. Jim and I were the only ones who made it out."

"Yeah, and Soleil, Eddie and me, and we got Adina and Adam. And there's Callie. She finished high school last year, been hunting with us ever since."

Sam looked at him questioningly.

"Soleil's daughter," Ginny said, a faint edge to her voice. "Ward, really."

Dean thought of the numbers. There were enough, if they could track the creatures, maybe trap them somewhere. "There's state or national forest to the north, isn't there?"

Red nodded. "Yeah, miles of it on either side of the lakes."

Dean turned to look at his brother. "We'll take a little drive out there tomorrow."

* * *

Sunlight poured through the curtainless, east-facing windows and Dean rolled over in protest, throwing an arm over his face, squinting at his watch. Past seven. He rolled back and exhaled.

Adam, Jim Olsen and Soleil's daughter, Callie, had returned as they'd finished eating. There was still a slight residue of discomfort between the three of them, their greetings polite but still reserved. Now twenty-seven, Adam looked more like them, grown into the broad-shouldered frame that John Winchester seemed to have passed onto all his sons. The blue-green eyes were harder than they'd been, Dean thought but that wasn't exactly surprising. He had a short, unkempt beard and his hair had darkened a little, making the resemblance to his father stronger.

Jim Olsen was a couple of years younger than Adam, light blond hair, vivid blue eyes, and the thick, creamy skin of the people of Scandinavia making him look younger still. He was six foot, lean and strong, and had gone to Ginny first, picking her up and kissing her before he'd turned to meet the Winchesters. Callie Roberts had stood behind him, watching them with undisguised interest. Tall and skinny, she had long, dark-brown curly hair that had been braided back for hunting, olive skin and huge, dark-brown eyes, the ingenuous expression on her face not quite reaching them. He had the feeling that Ginny's unspoken dislike of the girl probably had something to do with the way her eyes had followed Jim.

He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face slowly. He hadn't worked with any of them before, but he knew that he could rely on Soleil, Eddie and Red. Ellie had worked with all of them over the years and her respect was enough for him to trust them. Adam, and the others, were unknown quantities as yet.

The house, designed more to keep the inhabitants cool in the ferocious summers, was cold and he leaned over the edge of the bed to grab his t-shirt, looking up in surprise as the door opened and Callie walked in.

"Soleil asked me to come and wake you," she said, going to the end of the bed.

Dean looked at her, one brow raised. "Well, I'm up."

"So Adam's your brother?" She sat down on the corner of the bed, looking at him.

"Uh, yeah. Half-brother," he replied, pulling the t-shirt over his head.

"He said that he was dead, and that an angel resurrected him?"

He looked at her curiously, unable to shake the sense the girl's simple and artless questions were a front for something else. "Yeah, that's right."

"And that he went to Hell and you rescued him."

"More or less," he said, mouth lifting on one side. "Didn't you believe him?"

"Oh well," she looked away, shrugging. "Some people exaggerate their stories, you know, make 'em more interesting."

"Uh huh."

Looking back at him, she smiled suddenly. "Just wondered if what he was saying was all true."

"Yeah, well it is," he said, hoping the conversation was over. She didn't seem inclined to leave.

"You guys don't look like you get on all that well," she said and he sighed inwardly.

"We've had our moments."

"Family's important," she leaned toward him. "You should try and make it up."

He blinked. "Yeah, well, we probably should."

"You gonna get dressed and come down?"

"Yeah, you can tell your mom I'll be down in a minute," he said, relieved as she stood and walked to the door, going through and closing it behind her.

Before-breakfast lectures on the importance of family, he thought, great way to start the day. He still had the impression she'd been in here for some other reason, but he couldn't imagine what it could've been. She hadn't really shown any interest in anyone or anything other than Adam.

* * *

He took the cup of coffee Sam handed him and looked at the large-scale map on the wall. The attacks were marked in red, and they scattered out along the highways and county roads in every direction, the furthest about twenty-five miles from the town.

"You started out with one werewolf – four months ago?"

Soleil nodded. "We thought it came down from the north-east. When we'd killed it, it had several gunshot wounds, over the chest. Perhaps some other hunter had been chasing it, we don't know for sure. There was no sign that it had killed where we found it, and we didn't realise that it must have bitten others before they started killing on the next full moon."

Beside him Sam was studying the map as well. "Soleil, if these are all night attacks on visitors, how're they stopping the cars?"

She walked up to them, looking at the map. "The county has been upgrading a lot of the roads over the last year. On the last four attacks, the roads were at least partially closed, the asphalt ripped up and being replaced. It seems like they are using those sections for the, uh, ambush." She pointed out the attack locations.

Next to the map more than a dozen photographs of the victims had been pinned up, and Dean looked along the faces, noting that they were all part of a single demographic. He'd never heard of werewolves targeting a particular type of victim. He couldn't figure out a reason for it. Hearts were hearts. If they were operational, that was usually enough.

"What about the forests? Any attacks there?" He looked around at her. She shook her head.

"No. We thought, at first, that they might living there – that's where we took the first one – but we've been over the all the tracks and camp grounds, right along the edges of the lake, and haven't seen a sign of them in there."

"Five together," Sam said slowly, looking at his brother. "They might have all been bitten by the same werewolf, or they might have turned each other, but it's suggestive of them knowing each other before the attack, being close enough to have either been altogether or to want to be together."

She nodded. "The fact that they are not taking the locals, this too seemed to pointing to a group of men who live here, but so far, we haven't found anyone like that in town."

Eddie wandered over. "The victims – all the same type, the same age – we wondered why, 'cos that sure ain't a werewolf consideration for the most part. FBI say that serial killers tend to hunt within their own ethnic group, and young people do clump together more than older folk do."

Dean frowned, looking at the photographs. "Or it could be they're attacking people they think deserve it, somehow," he added, looking over his shoulder at Eddie.

Soleil looked at him. "Or that give them a greater power, perhaps?"

He nodded, feeling something snag at his mind. "Something they don't have?"

Sam looked at him. "Like what?"

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Don't know. We should take a drive around; see if we can see anything at the sites, see if we can a find a place that we can use to trap them."

"It will be quicker if you take someone with you, so you don't have to check the maps," Soleil said, looking at the other hunters, sitting around a long table, finishing their breakfasts.

"Yeah, we'll take Adam with us," he said, following her gaze and ignoring the surprised look Sam gave him. "He knows the area well enough."

"Yes."

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Frank knocked twice at the door and waited, stamping on the mat to get the snow off his boots. Ellie opened it and looked at him, standing aside as he swept into the house past her, snow sprinkled over his head and shoulders and his laptop tucked under one arm.

"Ask me what I've found!" he said, turning sharply back to her when he reached the kitchen.

Her brows shot up. "What did you find, Frank?"

"Ah … thought you'd never ask," he said sitting down at the table and opening his laptop on it. "Do you have coffee?"

She nodded and walked to the pot, filling two cups.

"I've spent the last two weeks getting every cell phone that originated and/or terminated in the Oregon/Nevada border region and correlating them over the three day period beginning when you passed through Winnemucca, to when Castiel pulled you out of the Trout Mountains, and creating a matrix for them. I then – thank you."

Ellie handed him a cup and sat down at the table. "I then matched every number with an account and ran a trace on every single one of the cell owners and visually confirmed or denied the possibility of their involvement." He leaned over and sipped his coffee, looking up abruptly. "It wasn't enough, not on its own, but I'm not alive and a genius and a brilliant tactician for nothing, you know, so I checked the local use of the satellite phones – who patched what to where, you see – and I did it."

"You found the base of the firstborn?" She put her cup down carefully, staring back at him.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "I enjoy telling these things to Dean more. He lets me drag it out longer."

"Firstborn, Frank?"

"Yeah," he said, waving a hand at her for patience. He swivelled the laptop around so that she could see the screen. The satellite photo had been zoomed down to street level, and four miles on the southern side of Winnemucca, past the airport and other side of the interstate from the railway line, a narrow secondary road led to a house, set amidst a thin group of trees, undoubtedly hidden from the roads at ground level. Ellie caught her lip between her teeth as she looked at it.

"Any satellites close enough to get real time surveillance on this place?" she asked him. He pursed his lips, looking at her.

"There's a Chinese satellite over the west coast at the moment, seems to be sending large streams of data back to the motherland. I might be able to tap into it."

Ellie looked up at him. "Military satellite?"

Frank grinned slyly at her. "Looks like."

"Good." She turned back to the screen. "I don't think all the firstborn are there, but Maluch, Reuma and maybe one or two others will be."

"There's no rush for this, is there? I'm mean, they'll be staying put."

"Yeah," she breathed, looking at the screen closely. "Yeah, no rush. I can take a run down there and have a look for myself, get to know their routine –"

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Frank interrupted, grabbing the laptop and slamming the lid shut. "No."

"No?" Ellie looked at him expressionlessly.

"You're staying here," he said, feeling his heart give a peculiar double beat at the chill in her eyes.

"Am I?"

"I'll call Dean," he threatened. "The last time I didn't tell him something that you should've, he gave me a half-a-fucking-hour lecture on telling him everything that happens, so don't think I bloody well won't."

It'd been after the vampire/stalker thing and Dean hadn't spared any adjectives in his descriptions of what he would personally do if he didn't get the full story straight away if anything like that came near his family again. The man had had a surprisingly broad vocabulary.

She laughed. "By the time he gets home, I'd have been there and back, Frank."

"They can _see_ you, when you're not here," he stared at her. "You're good, I'm not saying they'd get you if you went down there, but if they did – you would've given them the perfect weapon – and you know that."

She looked at him thoughtfully. He was right about that.

"Alright. How's your Cantonese?" she said.

Frank let out his breath. "Probably better than yours," he retorted, picking up his coffee.

* * *

_**Jasper, Texas**_

"Look at that," Dean murmured to his brother, lying full-length just under the crest of a low ridge, binoculars pressed to his eyes as he studied the road.

Sam lifted his head and saw where Dean was looking, panning around slowly until he found the section of road. There were two new roadwork teams stripping back the asphalt of the highway, one here, the other working on the 96 to the south of the town. Beside him, Adam watched the road as well.

"The quarry, behind them?" Sam said quietly.

"Uh huh." He looked across the deep bowl cut in the opposite ridge, thinking about wind and temperature and distance.

"How're we going to make sure that some suitable victims come along?" Adam said, looking past Sam to Dean. He watched the man's cheek lift as he smiled.

"Well, you and Sam and Callie are going into town tonight for some action," Dean said softly, lowering the glasses and grinning at them.

"What?" Sam dropped his glasses and stared at him. "I'm not in the demographic, Dean."

"You can pass for thirty, Sammy, just flash the dimples."

* * *

Soleil looked at him as he laid out the bones of the plan, shaking her head when he'd finished.

"Bringing civilians into this, this is not a good idea," she said.

"For whatever reason, the werewolves are after a certain type. You've tried to draw them out with just the hunters. It didn't work," he countered. "They'll be with us, we'll protect them."

"It's too risky."

"It's a risk. But it's not a big one," Dean insisted coolly. There was no other way to find these creatures. Whoever they were, they'd had enough time to get themselves hidden and organised.

Eddie looked at her. "I think he's right, _chère_. Sam and Adam and Callie will be there with them. Dean will be there with the rifle and Red and myself will be close enough to get there as well. It's enough to protect them."

Dean waited. Was this leadership, he wondered? She was still the leader of this team, if she canned the plan then there wouldn't be anything else he could offer. After a long moment, Soleil dropped her gaze, recognising that fact as well, and nodded.

"Alright."

* * *

Sam put the bag down on the table and opened it, tossing a box of bullets to his brother.

"Silver, for .45 calibre," Dean said, sliding the box along the table to Red and Jim. "Silver for 9mm."

"Silver shot, suspended," Sam said, tossing a box at Callie who was holding a double-barrelled sawn-off in one hand.

Dean leaned over and extracted the box of .50 calibre bullets for the M40, tucking it into his jacket pocket. "Sam, Callie and Adam will be in the pickup. Eddie and Red, you're following them at a very discreet distance."

The two men nodded, loading their handguns and shotguns. Sam looked sourly at Dean but didn't say anything. Soleil had already told him – twice – he looked ten years younger, clean-shaven and wearing clean jeans, sneakers and a brown leather jacket instead of his usual khaki or navy surplus.

Dean caught the look in the corner of his eye but didn't acknowledge it.

Soleil was acting spotter for him, not essential but useful to have. Jim and Ginny would be diverting traffic from the southern roadworks, just in case the monsters had decided on that location for the night. It was unlikely, the northern road had the big machinery, and much better cover, but he couldn't risk the chance that he was wrong about it.

He looked around the room. They were seasoned, experienced hunters. And they would be at safe distances, most of them, anyway. He didn't plan on letting a single werewolf near the car, and he was confident he could keep that promise to himself. At the far back of his mind, the thought that there was no room for error here at all lurked in the darkness. The bite was not reversible. And if someone was bitten, they would have to be killed. It was the thing that made hunting the were-creatures so risky, despite the fact that they had a vulnerability.

Moonrise was at eight. Sam, Adam and Callie would be leaving in half an hour for _The Jukebox_, a bar and club in town. Eddie and Red would be leaving now, to get into their position beforehand. He and Soleil would aim to be in place on the rim of the quarry an hour before the moon began its ascent.

"Check comms," Sam said, clipping on the small mike to the inside lapel of his jacket and tucking the tiny wireless earpiece into his ear. "How much interference are we going to get from any other sources on these?"

Dean shook his head. "Frank said zero. We're using a frequency that the military use, and the nearest base is a hundred miles from here."

"What's the range?" Soleil tucked the small button-like device into her ear.

"Ten miles, line-of-sight," Dean said. "Which, around here, should suit us fine."

The northern road work was a mile out of town. The southern one just under three miles. They should be able to hear each other without problems, but he and Soleil would have the best reception, at the top of the ridge.

"Where'd Frank get these, anyway?" Red asked, looking down as he clipped on the mike.

Dean's mouth twisted up to one side humourlessly. "We don't ask."

Eddie snorted.

* * *

_**The Jukebox, Jasper**_

Sam looked around as he walked into the long, wide room. Polished timber floors, poster-covered walls and a long old-fashioned formica-covered bar gave the impression of an old drugstore, not so much a bar. It was also plain that the establishment was deliberately catering to a certain age group, as he registered the music playing, nothing before last year and the dance floor at the end of the room already jammed up with young women.

He ducked his head, sorting through memories of college, especially the first year, trying to figure out how he should be acting as he headed for the bar. He looked at the bartender disbelievingly when she asked to see his ID, her brows shooting up when he handed her his licence. He hadn't been carded since he was twenty-three, and he could see her trying to work out what he was doing in a place that was full of people ten years or more his junior.

"Meeting a friend here," he said uncomfortably, and she nodded doubtfully, getting a beer from the glass-doored fridge behind her and handing it to him.

"Right."

He sighed and sat down at the end of the long counter, looking around for someone he could hit on.

He saw Callie come in, the girl's dark curls gathered up loosely, long legs revealed by the sheer black tights and short black skirt. _She shouldn't have too much trouble_, Sam thought. Adam came in a few minutes later, looking like a college senior and ordering a Coke from the bartender. All present and accounted for, Sam thought. They had a couple of hours here, then they'd head out.

* * *

_**Highway 95 N, Jasper**_

Dean assembled the rifle silently in the darkness, setting up and lying down on the pale dirt to take in his field of vision. Beside him, he could hear Soleil's soft breathing, but in the ghillie suit her outline was too broken for him to be able to differentiate her from the surrounding rough grass.

Both wore a simple paste of powdered herbs mixed with oil, to hide their scent. The slight night breeze was blowing toward them, and would keep them hidden from the werewolves if it remained steady.

He stared through the scope at the road below them, moving the gun slowly and silently around. Along the opposite side of the road, a grader, bulldozer and roller had been parked. On this side, a water truck, cold planer and crusher were nose in to the quarry floor. Any of the machines would make a good place to hide, he thought, staring at the black shadows beneath them.

"You are still not comfortable with Adam," Soleil said softly and he lifted his head slightly, checking his mike was off.

"Whatever Michael did to him, it left scars. Holes," he said, looking back through the scope. He knew that he should be giving his half-brother a better chance, but the memories that surrounded Adam's possession hadn't lost their power and they rose whenever he looked at him.

"He knows that, above everyone. He's lost everyone, Dean. He needs his brothers."

Dean exhaled softly. "Yeah."

"I am sorry," she breathed. "He was excited that you and Sam were coming. He was hoping for reconciliation."

"Soleil …"

"I know," she said, lifting her scope and scanning slowly over the ground in front of them. "It is not the time, nor the place."

He looked through the gun's scope. None of it had been Adam's fault. Poor kid had been dead when he'd been dragged into the attempts of Heaven to release Lucifer and Armageddon on the world, and his brothers hadn't been able to save him. _You left him behind, you mean_. The thought intruded and he acknowledged it. He had. And from then Adam had been at the mercy of angels and demons.

Behind them, the edge of the eastern horizon lightened imperceptibly, the dark outline of the land no longer indistinguishable from the night sky.

* * *

_**The Jukebox, Jasper**_

Sam looked down at the girl beside him and sighed. She was twenty-two, her name was either Sandy or Zandi, or possibly some other variation ending the same way, he wasn't sure. She was on a road-trip with her friends. These small pieces of information had been shouted into his ear between songs.

He still felt uncomfortable about taking civilians along on a hunt, but Dean's argument had been compelling. The creatures only hunted out-of-towners, and they would be better off with them, than trying to make it out of Jasper on their own. He wondered if Sandi or Zandi had ever faced anything more frightening than a spider in her father's garage.

Adam's arm was curled around a pretty co-ed, and Callie had led over two young men, neither over twenty-one, he thought, glancing at his watch. Another half-hour and they'd go.

_Must be getting old_, he thought dryly as he looked around the bar, watching the crowd. He didn't remember going out with the primary goal of getting plastered and getting numbers, although he thought he might've once or twice. Once he'd met Jess, though, he'd reverted back to his comfort zone quickly. He couldn't see Eddie and Red anywhere, but that didn't mean they weren't around. They were still uncertain as to the identities of the creatures when they were in human form.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Sandy yelled next to his ear. _Kill werewolves_. The thought shot into his mind and he had to clamp his teeth shut to stop from vocalising it.

"Go for a drive? There's supposed to be a lake up the highway," he said loudly back to her, feeling his heart sink as her eyes lit up and she nodded enthusiastically. She leaned toward Callie and told her the plan, and they finished their drinks.

The relative quiet of the parking lot was almost deafening. He walked to the pickup, and helped Callie into the tray, Adam and the co-ed getting in next and the two freshmen climbing in after them. It was empty and clean, except for the narrow lockbox behind the cab. They arranged themselves as he opened the passenger door for Sandy and went around to the driver's door. At the back of the lot he heard an engine starting up and paused for a moment to switch on his mike.

"Ready to go," he murmured, opening the truck door and getting in.

"We'll give you five minutes," Red's voice was quiet in his ear.

He started the engine and pulled out slowly, turning left and then right to get to the highway.

* * *

_**Highway 95-N, Jasper**_

"One o'clock," Soleil's voice was only just audible in his ear and he followed the direction, seeing a shadow slip across the road into the inky black behind the planer. _Yahtzee_, he thought, lowering the barrel slightly and adjusting the light entry and focus of his scope. Slightly outlined in green, he saw the shape crouched beside the enormous metal wheel, outline shaggy.

"Can you see the others?" he asked softly. The wind was still steady against his face, the night air cold, the moonlight silver over the still and silent stretch of torn-up road in front of them.

"Not yet," Soleil said, her scope moving incrementally as she searched the shadows. "Wait, _oui_, I have another one, your nine."

The barrel swivelled smoothly and he saw the werewolf vanish under the chassis of the grader. Those two first, he thought, the two machines were the closest to where a car would stop at the beginning of the works section.

On cue, he heard the rumble in the distance of a car. He looked down the scope, finger resting against the front of the guard as he waited.

The headlights lit up the road-closed sign and Sam took his foot off the accelerator, changing down as they coasted toward it. The girl beside him shook her head.

"This whole place is doing road-work at the moment, just see if you can get by the sign, it's never as bad as they make it out to be," she said.

Sam brought the truck to a smooth stop in front of the sign. In the back, Callie laughed and called out.

"What the hell we stopping for?"

They came out of the shadows and Sam reached across the seat, grabbing the back of Sandy's neck and shoving her to the floor of the cab as he pulled out his Taurus. Through the back window, he saw Callie jump to her feet, shotgun swinging clear of the guard mesh as Adam pushed his date down to the tray floor and yanked one of Callie's freshmen back inside.

He heard two flat cracks, one after the other and saw two of the werewolves drop to the ground, featureless black outlines against the pale gravel road bed. His window was down and he steadied the handgun on the frame, firing smoothly at the third creature running toward him. The howl was cut short as it dropped to the road, its forward motion skidding it through the gravel for a few feet before it stopped completely.

Two more howls rang through the night, rising and falling and almost dying away before rising again. _Two left_, Sam thought, scanning the black and white chiaroscuro in front of the truck. Above and behind him he could hear the low murmured talk between Adam and Callie.

On the rim of the quarry, Dean and Soleil were looking for any movement as well. One howl had been further back, Dean thought, the barrel pointing to the north, moving gradually over the shadowed road, in between the machines and piles of earth. The other had been closer to the truck.

Sam thought they'd come out together, try and take them by surprise and force, but it was a single creature that leapt out of the blackness behind the heaped piles of rubble, unkempt fur glistening in the silver light, eyes glowing in a misshapen face, the roar of rage abruptly cut short with the tripled blast of the double-barrel and pump action, Adam and Callie firing together, and the furred chest pulverised by the close-range of the silver shot that ripped and tore through hair and flesh and bone.

_Where the hell was the other one?_ Sam opened the door and got out of the truck, the barrel of his gun swinging around as he strained to hear.

* * *

Soleil lowered the scope. "They got it."

Dean nodded, his attention on the dark hillside next to the northern end of the road. His neck was prickling. _Where the fuck was it?_ Held back, deep down, fear lurked. _One bite_. That was all it took. When Twist had gone to help Laney with an explosion of the creatures in Michigan, he'd brought back the samples Frank had wanted – saliva and blood, hair and skin, flesh and bone. Reverted to human form, the samples had nevertheless proved that the condition was a kind of a disease, transmitted by the changes in the saliva. _One bite_. Frank had sent the samples to a friend, some hush-hush ex-military scientist who worked on genetic and bacterial anomalies. The details, the design, the way it worked, all explained. A cure? No. Impossible, Frank had relayed back. The changes affected the cell walls right through the body, an incredibly fast-acting cancer that couldn't be reversed, couldn't be stopped, was complete on the next full moon that rose. _One bite_.

He lay on his stomach, keeping that knowledge buried, focussed on the darkness below him, senses stretched out through the darkness, looking for the last werewolf. The smell filled his nose suddenly, brought on a slight shift in the direction of the wind, and he knew in that second that they were trapped.

Soleil's head snapped around as the raw, rank stench hit her, hand closing around the grip of the .357 P239 in her belt. It stood over Dean's legs, and she watched as the man beside her rolled to one side, twisting around to see the creature reach out almost leisurely, swiping his side and dropping low over him.

Dean looked into the werewolf's face (_sort-of-face_), time telescoping out and slowing down, the hot, foetid breath blasting over him as the jaws opened and the deeply lambent amber eyes narrowed. He could feel blood running down his arm and chest, sticking his clothes to his skin where the claws had slashed across him, feel the burning pain of the wounds as the night air hit them. He looked past long, white fangs, roped in glistening translucent liquid (_saliva_), at the dark gullet, unable to make his hand close around the grip of the gun he knew was right there, his legs tangled with the creature's, the bulk of the ghillie suit trapping him as tightly as chain.

One bite.

The gunshot was deafening and he closed his eyes, rolling harder to his right, feeling a scream tear through his throat as he rolled over the open wounds, then the lip of the quarry was under his back and there was nothing else there. He fell, the first hit to the ground below wiping out his nervous system with the enormity of the pain, his body limp and unconscious as gravity forced him down to the bottom.

* * *

Sam looked up at the shot, seeing the indistinct figures at the top of the quarry, then a shape falling and rolling down the long, rock-strewn slope to the road. He was running, heart sledging against his ribs, before he realised it.

"Dean!"

He dropped to his knees and slid the last couple of feet to the body that lay in the shadow of the hillside, dropping his gun and yanking at the flashlight in his pocket, unable to see anything but a rounded shape, covered in the rough grass stalks that had camouflaged his brother at the top of the quarry.

The light was bright and joined by two others as Adam and Callie pelted up behind him, showing him that Dean was lying on his side, the browns and greys and muted greens of the suit stained deeply with red underneath him. He rolled him over, breath hissing in as he took the fluttering edges of the suit, four long slashes, stained and wet with blood. His fingers searched frantically through the material, pulling it back as he looked for puncture marks, down his brother's neck, dragging the cloth back from his shoulders, staring at the sleeves from shoulder to wrist. There were none.

Behind him, he heard another truck pulling up, Eddie and Red's boots crunching fast across to them.

"Adam, get up there and help Soleil with the gun and get the car. We'll go in with Eddie and Red, you follow behind," he said sharply, head snapping around to look behind him. "Callie, get those kids back to town, don't tell them anything, don't say anything, just drop them off at the bar."

Adam was scrambling up the steep, loose slope before he'd finished, shotgun reloaded and safety on as he used his hands to claw his way up faster. Callie nodded once and spun around, and Sam heard the truck start up a moment later, the tyres spitting out gravel as she wrenched the wheel around, headlights splashing over him and gone as she headed down the road.

"How is he?" Eddie crouched beside him. Sam shook his head.

"No bite. Pretty badly mauled," he said tersely. "He's out cold, but I think his system overloaded, I can't feel a head injury anywhere."

Sam pulled the hood back and opened the front, his eyes narrowing as he took in the bruising lying like an ink stain just under the skin of his brother's face. He pulled at the velcro fastening, hearing the sharp rip as it opened and slid his fingers alongside Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse. There was one, faint and a little erratic. Dragging the suit's opening further, he looked at the wide cuts that ran across the upper arm and over the chest, filling with blood in the shallow flesh and muscle over the rib cage, punched deeper where they crossed his brother's diaphragm and continued halfway across his abdomen.

_Christ_. He looked down at the wounds. He could cut the suit free here, wash out the dirt and crud from the claws and do a rough dressing, or leave him and let the local hospital do it – he shook his impatiently. Infection was an ever-present danger with any monster with claws, invariably filled with dirt and old blood and a host of microscopic dangers. Distantly he heard the distinctive rumble of the Impala's engine and breathed a small sigh of relief, pulling his knife from the sheath at the back of his belt, and starting to slice through the thick, padded and wadded suit. _No bite_, the thought looped quietly in his head. _No bite. Everything else would heal. There was no bite_.

* * *

Sam leaned on his elbow, propping his head against his hand as he dozed beside the bed. In the background machines beeped and hummed, and the noise was soothing, familiar to him, so many nights spent exactly like this.

He opened his eyes and looked around as he heard the squeak of a boot sole over the polished linoleum. Adam stood by the end of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets, staring at Dean who was half-buried in the tubes and wires that connected him to the machines.

"He's going to be alright?" Adam asked in a whisper.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. Just lost a lot of blood," Sam said, gesturing to the bags that hung beside the bed. "You don't know him, but he – he doesn't die all that easily."

Sam looked at him, seeing an expression almost of longing slip over his features and disappear. His memories of his half-brother were tangled, a mixture of the ghoul's impersonation, the cold pragmatism of the archangel, the sly expressions of the demon. When Adam had woken, after Michael's last attempt at healing him, he'd had no memories of any of it. It'd been Trish and Garth and Twist who'd brought him back, who'd told him his history and had explained John Winchester's life. Neither he nor Dean had been able to face him.

He rubbed his face tiredly. The kid had, in a lot of ways, had it worse than them. A father who'd appeared once or twice a year, never giving anything of himself, not even the truth. Murdered with his mother in a final act of revenge against that father, not knowing why, not knowing how to protect his mother or himself from the monsters that had hunted them. Then dragged back into service after death – told that he was the second-rate vessel for an archangel. And left in the Cage with the two of them. Even his rescue had been a failure; Michael had left holes in him that could be used by any power strong enough. And of course, they had been.

Leaving him here, to work with Soleil's team, had seemed to be a solution, but it hadn't been, not really, he thought.

"When we go home …," Sam said softly, "you should come back with us."

The blue-green eyes turned toward him uncertainly. "Really?"

He would figure out a way to convince Dean that it was necessary, he thought, nodding.

"Yeah."

Adam ducked his head, and the gesture brought a slight smile to Sam's lips, having seen that same characteristic movement a million times before. He looked back at his older brother. Family had to be earned, in Dean's eyes. Blood wasn't enough. But Adam couldn't earn that unless he was there, with them, a part of their lives.

"Did Soleil recognise the werewolves?" he asked suddenly, remembering that they'd left the bodies there.

"Not personally, but they were part of the road work crews. Illegal workers, she thinks, all of them related. The county said that they didn't show up for work on Saturday." He looked at Sam. "We took the bodies up the forest and burned them."

"Good," Sam nodded. At least that was out of the way. "Adam …"

"Yeah?"

"When Dean's awake – when he's back to himself …," he hesitated, not sure how to word what he needed to say. "If he seems … if he's not all that understanding, you need to remember that it's not you he's seeing, okay? He, uh, might be seeing someone who took –" He stopped again. Adam looked at him. "When Baal had control of you –"

"Sam, Trish told me what happened," Adam interrupted him softly. "I know what I did to Ellie. And to you."

Sam exhaled. "It's okay. He doesn't hold it against you, you understand? Just might take awhile for him to stop seeing you in that context."

Adam nodded. "Better than not seeing me at all, right?"

Sam wasn't so sure about that, but they had a three day drive to get used to it, he guessed.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Dean looked down at Ellie, as she looked closely at the scars that twisted over his chest and stomach, across his bicep.

"Bloody butchers down there," she commented mildly, straightening up and looking at him. The scars were clean, but they weren't particularly neat, the stitching cobbled rather than sewn.

He grinned at her, pulling on a shirt carefully. Sam and Adam had shared the driving on the way back, he'd spent most of the trip lying on the back seat, sleeping or thinking or vagueing out on the painkillers the hospital had given him, trying not to move much mostly.

She'd checked every inch of his skin, looking for the smallest sign of a bite. He'd been slightly amused by her diligence at the time, although he knew he'd have done the same thing if their positions had been reversed. Sam had also looked him over, not quite as thoroughly, or as enjoyably, when he'd woken up in the hospital. Surprisingly, the worst pain had been from his left shoulder. The massive bruising over the shoulder blade and up to the point of the shoulder indicated that he'd landed on it when he'd fallen from the edge of the quarry, and that had hurt worse than the cuts, the other bruises that covered him or the various aches and pains from rolling down over the rocks.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ellie looked up at him. "How are you feeling about Adam?"

He reached for the button-through shirt and eased it over his right arm, pushing the left through more impatiently. "Okay. I thought it'd be harder, but the drive up –" It had been okay. Adam wasn't someone he knew, really. And he'd started to get to know him over the three days on the road. He was a Winchester, he thought dryly, there'd been no doubt of that. The conversations, the stubbornness, the somewhat sneaky and largely dry sense of humour. He'd thought there would be more of his mother in him, and perhaps there was, but he'd seen his father in the younger man as well, and those glimpses had been … strangely good. Better than good. They'd been a little reminder of his father, given him a sense of connection, of liking. "- we kind of got him know just as he is. No past, no sense that he'd been involved before."

He screwed up his face a little, not sure if he could explain it to her. She smiled and nodded.

"Fresh start."

"Yeah, but with a connection," he added, sitting beside her. "I could see Dad, sometimes, in a look or a gesture, or what he said … it was weird."

"But good too?"

He felt his mouth lift on one side. "Yeah."

"Frank tell you he found the base?" she asked him.

He looked at her expressionlessly. "Yeah, he did. Told me he practically had to tie you to a chair."

Ellie snorted. "What a lie!"

"So you didn't tell him you'd go out there by yourself to do some recce?"

She looked away. "It crossed my mind that I could save us all some time that way."

"Ellie …"

"I didn't go, Dean," she said, looking back at him. "Frank pointed out that it would be high-risk and I didn't do it."

"High-risk doesn't begin to describe it," he said, feeling the rush of fear as his imagination conjured up what could have been. "We'll take them down together, alright?"

"Yes, we will," she agreed, looking into his eyes. Her gaze shifted over his face. "Is there anyplace I can kiss you where it won't hurt?"

He smiled and lifted a finger to his lips. "The usual place feels okay."

* * *

**END**


	17. Chapter 17 A Simple Man

**Chapter 17 A Simple Man**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Sam looked up from the file he was reading, rubbing his knuckles over his eyes. The big, comfortable room was filled with hunters – a sight that still brought a faint feeling of surprise – sitting at the long narrow table, filling the couch and armchairs, their heads for the most part bent over books, files or printouts, or talking to each other in low voices, faces and hair gilded by the firelight and the overlapping pools of light from the table lamps.

Baraquiel was talking to Frank, the Watcher's dark red hair catching the light like wine as he inclined his head. Beside him, Talya was reading, brows creased as she made notes on the file. Garth and Tamsin were talking to Oran, the nephilim nodding understandingly at Garth's wild gesticulations. Twist, Dwight and Katherine were in a huddle by the table, arguing with Bezaliel and Shamsiel over something, he thought, Dwight's tucked in smile suggesting it was not all that serious.

He watched Dean lean over to kiss Ellie as she rose from the couch, firelight burnishing the short copper-coloured hair that was slowly growing out, then turn back to Adam, his brother's characteristic scowl reappearing as he flipped over a page in the file in front of them.

Tomorrow or the day after, Laney would be here. And Soleil. And they would be figuring how to take down the firstborn base in Nevada. And how to find the last two who were hiding elsewhere in the big country.

He got up and followed Ellie to the kitchen.

Standing at the counter on the other side of the spacious room, she was making a fresh pot of coffee, spooning the grounds into the filter, when he came in. He hid a slight smile as he saw her head lift, tilt slightly to one side, then look back down again.

"Need some coffee, Sam?" she asked, without turning around. He'd asked about that, a while ago, how she knew who was behind her, what was behind her, without having to look. She'd muttered something about weight and signatures and energy fields and had changed the subject after she'd seen his eyes begin to glaze over.

"Yeah, I'll wait."

He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "How many will we have, altogether?"

"About twenty, I think," Ellie said, turning the pot on and turning around. "Four teams of five, the way it's looking right now."

"You're going?"

She shook her head. "Second string."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't seem that disappointed."

"I'm not," she looked at him and smiled. "Baraquiel has a plan, and I think it's the best shot we've got."

"To arrange a meeting between the firstborn and Michael?" Sam shook his head. "I thought the archangels hated the nephilim?"

"Not just the arcs, most of the seraphim do too," she agreed. "But the Watchers think he'll agree. I don't know what Baraquiel and Sariel have over Michael, but they've hinted it'll be enough."

"Let's hope," Sam shrugged. The business of angels had once seemed fascinating to him. Not any more. They could have their power struggles and keep it to themselves, so long as they didn't involve the human population, he thought.

"How are you finding working with Adam?" Ellie came over to the table and sat down.

"It's good," Sam said, smiling a little. "It's fine. I didn't think it would be, but it is."

She nodded. "Dean says the same."

"He's had it the worst of all of us, I think," Sam added, looking down at the table. "At least we knew what was going on, most of the time."

"Certainly made Dean think long and hard about being a vessel for Michael," Ellie commented, only a hint of emotion hidden in her voice.

"Yeah."

"What about the training for the kids? How's it going?"

"Well," he said slowly. "It's working, sort of. They seem to be able to do different things."

Ellie nodded. "John and Rosie, too. John's abilities are more passive, Rosie's, more active."

"Is that what the firstborn want them for?" Sam glanced at the pot which was bubbling to itself.

"No, I don't think so. The abilities have to be there, but they're not the thing that's crucial, like with you and Dean, it's the blood that's the key, somehow." She glanced over at the pot, then back to him. "Bobby took me to visit a friend of your father's once, a psychokinetic. Fred Jones. Do you remember him?"

"Fred Jones." Sam rifled through his memories of the few genuine psychics they'd met over the years. Fred Jones had been the most powerful, their father had told them. A tall, straight-backed man with warm brown eyes and a sneaky sense of humour, Sam remembered, but he'd never done anything in front of them, other than introduce them to beer.

"Yeah, he had the full deck. I've never even heard of anyone else who could do what he could," she said. "Both the active and passive gifts."

She leaned back in the chair, frowning very slightly. "But he was already losing control when we saw him. I was surprised that Dean hadn't remembered him when your abilities started to show up."

He laughed a little ruefully as the memories of that time rose. "It was years ago, the last time we saw Fred. He never actually showed us what he could do. We only had Dad's word for it that he was powerful."

"Still," Ellie said thoughtfully, getting up as the pot hissed softly and getting a couple of mugs down from the shelf. She poured them both fresh cups.

"What made you think of him now?"

"I've been looking around for someone who has the abilities, to help train John and Rosie."

"You find him?" Sam took the mug from her, brows lifting in surprise.

Her mouth lifted on one side regretfully. "Yeah. He's in a nursing home."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be much more to say to that.

"I'm guessing you wanted something other than a fresh coffee, Sam?" She sat down again and looked at him curiously.

"Huh, yeah, I was wondering if you were planning on anything for Dean's birthday?" he said sheepishly, blowing over his coffee.

She smiled suddenly. "No."

"Do you mind if I do?"

"He's not much of a birthday person, Sam," she said, inclining her head.

"Yeah, I know." Sam shrugged. "But I thought, maybe a surprise –"

Ellie laughed. "Are you trying to kill him? Or get people shot in our house?"

"We've done it before," Sam said defensively. "He was okay."

She shook her head. "Oh Sam, he hated those parties. He's not comfortable with being in the spotlight, you know that."

"Well, something then …" Sam looked at her.

"Why?"

"I don't know," he said, glancing away. "Because he's kind of like the backbone to this whole life, and we never acknowledge that."

"He doesn't like to think about that, either, you know." She sipped her coffee, looking at him over the rim of the cup. "He's happiest when he's left alone to do his job."

Sam frowned. A part of him recognised that as being the truth. "You really think he'd rather we just forget it?"

"Forget it?" Ellie snorted. "No … not forget it, god, no. But keep it extremely low-key. No party. Lots of food."

"How do you do that?"

"In this weather? Hard to say," she admitted. "But we'll have nearly everyone here tomorrow, so it shouldn't be too hard to manage."

He finished his coffee and looked into the empty cup for a moment.

"Sam, how is it that you don't know this about him? He's your brother, and he's been this way as long as I've known him," Ellie asked gently. "He's never thought of himself as anything out of the ordinary."

"Despite all evidence to the contrary?" Sam looked at her.

"Precisely," she said. "I'm prepared to admit I'm biased, but there're plenty of others to back that up."

"Yeah. I don't know." He looked around the kitchen. "Sometimes it feels as if we're still kids, knowing everything about each other. Other times, I look at him and feel like I've just been introduced."

"Sounds like it's not just Adam you two need to get to know again."

"Maybe," he agreed. "It got really screwed up, for a couple of years, with what we were doing. Then you guys were away for a couple of years." He looked at her, his brow creasing slightly. "Don't take that the wrong way, he really needed it, that time, and I'm glad he got it, but there's a lot I feel like I don't really know now."

She nodded. "Well, there's time."

"Yeah," Sam said softly. In this life, in their life, that was usually a false comfort. He wasn't sure why he felt such a need, right now, to understand Dean. It had grown gradually over the last year, more time spent together, maybe? More things shared. He felt like he knew bits and pieces, but not the reasons behind them, not the why of his brother.

* * *

He took another mug for himself and a mug for Dean back to the living room, finding him leaning against the table, the rest of the group gathered around.

"There are four left in the house near Winnemucca," Dean said, nodding slightly as Sam put the coffee down next to him and moved away to the lean against the back of the long sofa. "That might not sound like much, but trust me, they are not going to be easy to take – and we can't kill them, we have to take them alive."

Sam suddenly realised why Ellie wasn't going along. He'd thought Dean would have been taking the attack on them more personally as well, but his brother sounded relaxed and unemotional, not even an edge of anger in his voice. Another thing that had changed, he thought, evolved gradually without him noticing.

"We'll go in with two teams. Laney and Soleil are bringing their people up, they should be here tomorrow, and hopefully by then Frank'll have nailed the other locations down to something less broad than a state," Dean said, straightening up and picking up his coffee with a bland look at the older man who scowled at him from the other end of the table.

"What are we doing with them, once we've got them?" Dwight looked across the table at Baraquiel.

The Watcher looked at him. "They want to return to Heaven. We're going to show them what awaits them there."

"That's nice and cryptic," Dwight muttered and Baraquiel smiled, turning to Dean.

"Castiel has confirmed that Michael and Iophiel will meet with us, in six weeks. Does that give us enough time?"

Dean glanced around as Ellie walked over to stand beside him. "Yeah, it should do."

Sam looked at them. Ellie's attention was primarily on the cup of coffee she held, sipping at the hot, black liquid. But in the space between them was an awareness, of each other, a charge that joined them invisibly, he thought. At first, he'd been surprised by their relationship, surprised at the way his brother had fallen headlong into it. It'd taken him a while to realise that his brother had found someone that he could be himself with, just himself, not hiding anything, not keeping anything back. And that he'd never had that before, not even with his family.

Dean looked around the table. "Everyone clear on what they're doing?"

There were murmurs and grunts of assent, and the hunters began to disperse, heading back to their reading, to the kitchen to get food or coffee, stopping to talk here and there. He watched Dean look down at Ellie, saw his brows draw together for a moment, then clear as she lifted her head to look at him, one brow lifting and falling subtly, a faint crinkle at the corners of her eyes apparently answering the unspoken question.

Ellie's gaze flicked past Dean to him and his brother turned around. "So, you and Trish want to do the Nevada hit, or wait till Frank's found the rest?"

Sam shrugged. "Either way is fine."

He straightened, standing up. "How are we going to get them without killing them?"

"Holy oil," Dean said, with a smile, his gaze cutting back to Ellie. Sam looked at her quizzically.

"Cas said it would kill a fullblood angel, but it would burn the halfbreeds, the effect becoming more and more diluted the more distant the connection, but still noticeable to anyone with angel bloodlines," she explained. "Baraquiel says that the firstborn didn't know about it, won't realise that it's a trap until it's too late. It'll burn them enough to be a sufficient deterrent from moving."

"And transporting them anywhere?" Sam looked at her. "Or do we leave them where they are?"

"We'll leave them there, all of them, until Michael's ready to deal," Dean said. "The Watchers will remove the protection around the house. They'll be blazing like a bonfire and the angels won't have any trouble finding them."

"And if they don't accept that Heaven isn't theirs?"

"Then we will be able to say we saw the beginning of the Second War," Baraquiel's deep, mellow voice said from behind him.

Sam turned around. "And what's the collateral damage on that?"

"More than we want ever want to think about, Sam," the Watcher said unhappily. "We have to prevent them from being able to open the circle, even if it means killing them all."

He turned away, and Sam saw the slump in his shoulders. One of those he talked about was his own firstborn child. He couldn't imagine being in the Watcher's position.

* * *

The deep, throaty rumble coming up the road sounded familiar, Sam thought. He and Trish rose together, going to the window in time to see Laney's monstrous black pickup cruise past. Sam's forehead creased up a little. It didn't sound exactly right, not as smooth as it should.

"You ready to head up and say hi to everyone?" Trish asked him, lifting Adrienne out of the high chair and wiping her face.

"As I'll ever be," Sam nodded, taking his daughter from her as she went to call Marc and Laura. The children were excited by all the preparations that had been going on, and more excited by the prospect of staying all together at Dean's place, while the teams went out.

Trish had finally decided that if she wanted to keep her hand in, she'd better start getting back in the field. She'd spent the last five weeks training with Ellie in the dojo and on the range, regaining the hard edge of fitness and as she said with varying tones of disgust, learning everything she'd forgotten she'd known, and quite a few things that she'd never considered. He'd had a hard time suppressing his natural inclination to comment when she'd come home day after day, covered in the fluorescent paint from the forest training, or groaning loudly from the sparring sessions. According to his wife, Ellie was a hard-ass when it came to getting things right. Near enough was never, ever good enough.

He shifted Adrienne in the crook of his arm, and looked around the hall for anything they might've forgotten, then followed Trish outside.

They were only two houses down from his brother's place, but the blocks were big and by the time they'd turned in the gate, Laney, Greg and Carl were already inside. Marc and Laura shot down the driveway, hearing the rising shrieks of excitement as Laney's two girls were reunited with John and Rosie. Dean stood on the porch, frowning at the black pickup sitting behind the Impala.

"Did you hear the truck come past?" he asked Sam abruptly as he climbed the steps.

"Yeah, something didn't sound quite right," Sam said, as he walked past, He caught Dean's faint expression of surprise.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he said, turning and following him. "Hey Laney, what have you done to your engine?"

Both men turned back as two more vehicles came down the drive, a dusty, tan and white station wagon, followed by a silver pickup, pulling up behind Laney's truck, and they waited on the porch as Soleil, Eddie, Red and Callie got out and came up the porch steps.

"Are we the last to get here?" Soleil looked at them, one brow rising.

"Yep, Laney just turned up," Dean nodded, gesturing to the hall. "All quiet down your way?"

"Quiet as the grave," Red said as he shook Dean's hand, then Sam's in passing, following Soleil, and continuing over his shoulder. "Adina called this morning, Ginny and Jim went north to check out a couple of deaths near the border, but nothing else."

"Quiet before the storm," Eddie muttered, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walked by into the house.

"Always the optimist, Eddie," Dean said wryly, waiting for Callie then following them inside. Sam saw the girl half-turn back, and then carry on, as if she'd been about to say something but had thought better of it.

* * *

"Where the hell did he go?"

Sam heard Laney's voice from the hallway, followed by her exclamation as Soleil and Eddie walked into the living room. He followed Callie and Dean into the room, seeing the diminutive blonde hugging the tall Frenchwoman enthusiastically.

"God, it's been years, look at you," Laney grinned up at Soleil.

"You haven't changed, Laney, still far too much _joie de vivre_ for such a tiny person," Soleil smiled at the other woman with genuine affection. It wasn't so surprising that the women had survived so much, Sam thought, had led and protected their crews so well. In his experience, women were far more practically-minded and pragmatic than men, less likely to get lost in the idealism that tended to kill their male counterparts.

There was a brief flurry of introductions and then Laney spotted Dean, advancing on him.

"There you are!" she almost shouted, moving fast through the crowded room to him. "Happy Birthday, Dean!"

Sam saw Dean's eyes widen a little as he looked around, a vaguely hunted air hunching his shoulders. Ellie'd been right, he thought bemusedly as everyone turned around at Laney's announcement and looked at his brother.

"Ah, thanks, Laney," Dean said, looking over her head as she hugged him tightly.

"And you said you wouldn't make thirty!" Laney leaned back to look up at him. He smiled uncomfortably at her, his expression becoming a little more harried as the rest of the hunters gathered around him.

Across the room, Sam caught Ellie's eye, nodding as she tilted her head and lifted an eyebrow. She started edging around the crowd to his brother, and Sam saw him catch sight of her, his expression relaxing a little as he watched her get closer.

_I mean, I don't like getting singled out at birthday parties ... _Sam smiled a little as he remembered Dean's protest.

"Come on you guys, let the man breathe," Ellie said as she got closer to Dean. "Kitchen's full of food, go and get some before it all disappears."

Magically, the hunters turned en masse and headed out through the dining room for the kitchen. Sam watched as Laney and Soleil reluctantly turned away with them, and Dean and Ellie stood together and watched them go.

He walked over to them, smiling a little at his brother. "She was right, you know, you didn't think you'd make it to thirty."

"Yeah, see my 'shoot first, ask questions later' policy worked," he said, an arm curving around Ellie as they followed the hunters slowly through the dining room.

"You really don't like being the centre of attention, do you?" Sam asked him quietly.

Dean looked at him dryly. "Why is that a surprise to you?"

"I don't know," Sam said, shaking his head. "I got the idea that you didn't mind it."

"From where?" Dean slowed as they approached the kitchen. "Kind of hard to stay camouflaged if the spotlight's on you."

"Yeah."

They walked into the room and Sam hung back a little, looking around for Trish. He saw her standing by the island bench, talking to Soleil and Eddie, and began to move around the edges of the room, watching Dean and Ellie move through the crowd easily, talking to one person and then another, his brother looking relaxed and comfortable now that he wasn't the sole focus of attention.

* * *

"Laney, give me your keys," Dean called out when the kitchen was mostly empty, and the food mostly gone. She turned around and fished them out of her jeans pocket, throwing them to him. He caught them and went out.

"I'm going to put Adrienne down," Trish said, appearing beside him with the little girl drowsily held in one arm. "Have you seen Marc and Laura?"

He nodded. "They're all in the playroom, upstairs. Ellie took them up some food before and they're watching a movie."

Trish smiled a little and turned away. He knew what she was thinking. Ellie wasn't in the slightest bit maternal, and having seven kids to look after for the next few days would be an interesting challenge for his sister-in-law. She'd cope, he thought callous smile.

He went to the fridge and pulled out two bottles of beer, walking down the hall to the front door, and out onto the porch.

* * *

"What is it?"

Dean looked up from the innards of the engine. "Timing's out."

"Is that serious?" Sam passed him a beer, leaning against the quarter panel and opening his own.

"If I have a chain to fit, no," Dean straightened up and looked at him quizzically. "You want some lessons on fixing cars again, Sammy?"

He smiled. "Not really, no, definitely your thing."

"Then what is it?" Dean twisted the top off and looked at him.

"I … uh," Sam looked down into the engine, unsure of what he wanted to say. "Just, you know, we've been getting to know Adam again, and uh … it seems like I don't know you all that well, either."

"Sure you do," Dean said, frowning at him.

"No, I really don't."

"Okay, well now you're creeping me out a bit, Sam," he said, leaning against the grill. "Do I need to get the holy water and borax and iron?"

Sam laughed uncomfortably. "No, it's me … it's … uh … like, for instance, you're going on this hunt for the firstborn."

"Yeah, and?"

"And I'm not seeing any emotional fallout from what they did," Sam said, not needing to elaborate on that. Dean nodded slowly.

"Yeah, okay," he said, understanding. "It's there, Sam, just not giving it any airplay right now."

"You never used to be able to do that."

Dean looked down and smiled. "I used to do it all the time. Just didn't hide it as well, is all."

"Ellie signed herself off this ride, didn't she?" Sam asked. He saw a shadow pass behind his brother's eyes, there and then gone.

"Yeah, well, she took it a lot more personally," Dean said, putting the beer down and picking up a socket wrench. "They shouldn't have tackled her when she had the kids with her."

Sam watched him undoing the nut that controlled the tensioner, easing the sprocket inward, the small whir of the ratchet in the wrench the only sound.

"But you're okay with it?"

Dean glanced up, squinting into the sunlight behind his brother. "No, I'm not. Baraquiel's plan just seems to be the best shot we've got of not having to go to war with them ourselves, and not having them hunt us until they get lucky."

He looked back into the engine. "Pass me that small hammer."

Sam looked around and picked it up, putting it into Dean's extended hand. "How'd you convince Ellie to step back?"

"I didn't," Dean said, his voice a little muffled from the proximity to the solid metal as he tapped gently. "She took herself out."

"Oh."

"Realistically, we shouldn't be on this hunt either," Dean said a moment later, freeing the old chain and pulling it out. "If it goes sideways we're both what they want."

He picked up his beer and swallowed a mouthful. "But, we're probably the most experienced hunters here, especially when it comes to the whole angel thing."

"Yeah." Sam nodded. It was true. Unfortunate, but true. It still wasn't what he needed to ask. Dean's eyes narrowed a little as he looked at him.

"Whatever it is, Sam, just say it."

"Did you, um, tell Ellie everything – I mean, everything that's happened, everything you've done?"

He saw a fleeting expression of sympathy in his brother's eyes for a moment and realised that Dean knew exactly what was he was asking. He wasn't sure if that was a relief or not. He couldn't remember the last time he'd asked something this personal of his brother.

"Yeah," Dean said unequivocally. "I had to. I couldn't deal with it when it was just in my head." He looked at Sam with a faint, humourless smile. "You were right about that – I needed to get it out, but I couldn't with anyone else."

He ducked his head, spinning the socket softly around with his fingers. "And, well … I wanted her to know me. All of it, the broken pieces, the scars, everything."

Sam thought about what he knew of Dean's experiences, of the little his brother had told him of Hell, of what had been done to him, what he'd done, how he'd felt. "How? When? What did she do?"

Dean looked around and picked up the chain. "I've got a chain that'll fit this in the garage. Come on."

Sam followed him around the house. The garage sat to one side, a big double, the walls lined neatly with shelving, a chain hoist over one bay, the concrete floor stained but otherwise clean. Sam glanced around. It looked like the sort of workshop his father had set up, from time to time, when they'd been in a single place long enough. Organised. Efficient. Designed for working in.

Dean stopped by the long workbench at the rear, and put the old chain down, setting his beer down next to it and walking along the shelving to the left hand side. He pulled out a box and carried it to the bench, taking out the new chain and checking it against the old one.

"It was in '09. After you iced Famine, when she found us in Nebraska."

"Wait a minute, wasn't that when Raphael turned up?"

"The next day, yeah," Dean said quietly, his hands laying out the chain carefully, his eyes fixed on it. "That night was our, uh, first time. And after, I told her everything."

"Just like that?" Sam leaned against the bench, looking at him doubtfully.

"Well, no. Scared the hell out of me to do it, and I was pretty sure – I was damned sure that she would leave," he said, glancing sideways at his brother. "That was why I thought she'd left and didn't come back, you know, later."

Sam nodded. He remembered Dean's despair, as they'd searched for the way to get Lucifer into the cage, and the slowly growing certainty that she wouldn't come back. He'd never explained it and after a while he'd stopped talking about her at all.

"What did she do? When you told her?" It was what he was afraid of, what would change, what Trish would do, how it would make her feel.

He was surprised to see Dean smile. "She told me that I needed to forgive myself. She, uh, told me that she loved me."

Sam watched the expressions flit over his brother's face with the memory.

"I – it took a long time before I really believed it," Dean said, gesturing vaguely. "I spent a lot of time convincing myself that I didn't."

"And you didn't forgive yourself either," Sam said, knowing Dean hadn't.

"No." He shrugged. "It seemed too easy. It changed something inside me, though," he added, looking at Sam. "It made those memories, those feelings, not so hard to live with."

Sam nodded, looking down at the worn chain lying on the bench. "So this just needs replacing?"

Dean glanced down at it and back up again. "With some other adjustments, yeah. Sam …"

Sam looked at him, hearing the question, his expression suddenly bleak. "I can't … I can't seem to … do it. Not even with Trish."

Dean looked at him, rubbing a hand along his jawline. "I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but you need to. If you don't, if you don't find a way, it'll wreck everything, eventually."

"I know," Sam said, looking away.

"She'll understand, Sam."

"How do you know that?" His head snapped up, feeling the fear churning into a defensive anger. Even that was habituated now. "How can you be so sure of that?"

Dean shrugged. "Because she's a hunter. Because she knows what this life is like. Because she loves you. Because, the bottom line is if she doesn't, then she's not the right person for you."

That he didn't want to hear. He nodded and looked away. He'd told Trish a lot of it. She knew about Azazel. She knew about Ruby and the demon blood, although not the full extent of it, not what he'd almost become. He'd told her he'd done it to kill Lilith. She didn't know about the seals or Lucifer rising or jumping into the Cage with the devil or what had happened to him down there. And he was afraid that if he told her … everything … it would change what they shared fundamentally. He could feel his brother's gaze on him.

"I used to think that everyone needed a part of themselves that was just them. Just themselves where they could put the crap that they really didn't want or need anyone else to see," Dean said slowly, picking up the chain and his beer. "I found out that was wrong. Everything I've done, everything that's happened to me, all of it, from the moment Mom died, it all, I don't know, turned me into who I am now."

Sam nodded, flicking a sideways look at him.

"I can't take one little piece and say, that's not relevant, or I don't think Ellie should know about that. It can't work that way. I had to be myself, no lies. And I had to know if she could deal with that, knowing how bad it was."

"Have you forgiven me for everything I've done, Dean?" Sam asked, turning his head to look at him.

He saw the hesitation on his brother's face, a flash of memory or feeling and Dean looking at him through it. "I've forgiven everything I can, Sam."

That hadn't been the answer he'd been looking for, but he knew it was the best he could expect. In the long catalogue of the things that had happened between them, the choices they'd made and the consequences of those choices, there was only one thing that Dean couldn't forget, couldn't get past.

_You're angry, you're self-righteous. Lucifer's gonna wear you to the prom, man. It's just a matter of time._

His brother's words slipped into his mind. He'd been angry and self-righteous for a long time before then, beguiled by Ruby's assertions and the manipulations of angels. Seduced, so easily, by the power of the blood and the sense of a cataclysmic importance to his role. He hadn't listened to Dean because he'd thought Dean hadn't been listening to him, and because he'd thought that Dean had been broken apart by what had happened to him, by what he'd done. He remembered feeling stronger than his brother, remember the towering arrogance that had come with the ingestion of Ruby's blood, with the tearing apart Samhain and Alastair. The memories of that arrogance still had the power to make him curl up in shame.

When the spear had driven into Meg's heart, into Lucifer's heart, every one of those rationalisations had fallen away, like the anger that had lived inside of him his whole life. What had been left had been an understanding of how he'd been turned into a puppet for Heaven and Hell to play with, making his own choices based on the fallacy of the promise of being the world's saviour, of turning the taint in his blood into something pure and powerful. A lie he could see now. But he hadn't then.

With hindsight, and a clear head, he realised that he should've known he was being played. God had never once chosen anyone who'd lined up for the job to save the world. His choices always had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to the arena. Like his brother.

"Sam, I know you didn't have much room to manoeuvre, I know that you were being pushed around with no time to think," Dean said quietly.

He looked at the man standing a few feet from him, watching him, seeing the deep regret in the dark green eyes. His brother. The only family he had left. The two of them had only had each other, really, for years. He couldn't tell if the tangle of emotion he felt when he thought about Dean was real, or habit or if it had evolved because it had gone on for long enough, and had become real. He'd spent quite a lot of his life feeling completely different from Dean and his father. Feeling that he'd had nothing in common with them, couldn't talk to them, couldn't articulate his feelings to them. And that he didn't understand them. Either of them, their straight-forward desire to hunt down the monsters and kill them, the lack of consideration for any other type of life, the recklessness that both had for their own lives, expendable if need arose, especially for family.

"There you are."

Sam and Dean turned toward the garage door, seeing Trish silhouetted against the sunshine outside.

"Come on, finish whatever you're doing, you're both needed inside," she said, walking into the open space to Sam and slipping her arm around him. He saw her register the silence between them, the tension in him, and lift a brow slightly. He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders.

"Yeah, we're coming," he said lightly, glancing back at Dean who followed them out.

"I'll be a few minutes," Dean added, returning to Laney's pickup as they climbed the stairs.

Sam stopped at the top of the porch stairs, watching him for a minute as he buried himself inside the engine bay, installing the new chain, confident as he spun the wrench in one hand absent-mindedly, finger-tightening the nut with the other.

He'd thought his brother was a simple man, and perhaps, in some ways he was. Happy with what he did, with who he was, with what he had, Dean didn't really care about the things other people did, or wanted or thought about. At the same time, he wasn't. There were depths there that he'd never even thought about. The same things could be said for himself. The difference was, he thought, Dean had explored those deeps, and he knew he never had.

* * *

"So what were you two discussing that was so tense when I came in?" Trish asked him softly as they sat down at the long dining table.

He looked at her, his heart contracting as it always did when he really looked at her, seeing the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her bottom lip, somehow those things tugging at him with a wordless need.

"Just old times," he said lightly. "Nothing that serious."

He hated those lies, the ones that came out almost automatically whenever their conversations got close to something he couldn't bring himself to let out. Every woman he'd ever been interested in had gotten those lies, and it worse, a lot worse, with Tricia, because he didn't want to lie to her at all.

He'd wanted a normal life, but he'd never considered that he couldn't have one with someone who was a civilian. He should've, god knows his brother's attempt with Lisa and Ben should've shown him. Even with Jess, when he'd thought himself well out of the hunting life, he'd kept most of what they'd done, most of his own history, hidden from her. Tricia wasn't a civilian but he still kept things apart, compartmentalised into what he thought was safe, and what he knew was not.

It made a barrier. He'd asked Dean because even when things were at their worst between his brother and Ellie, there wasn't a barrier of that kind keeping them apart. And he wanted that. He thought he needed it, they needed it.

* * *

"Laney, new timing chain in the truck," Dean said as he came into the dining room, handing her back the keys and walking around the table. Sam felt Trish's attention shift from him and he let out a small breath.

He watched and listened as Dean went over the plan for the next day, allocating positions, weapons, warnings, instructions and the little personal history of the nephilim that they knew of from Chasina and Lazio. The two other firstborn would be transferred back to Lovelock after they took the base.

He looked like he'd been doing briefings like this one all his life, Sam thought with a reluctant smile. He'd always been good at rallying people, good at cutting through to the bare bones of an operation and laying it out as if it couldn't fail. He'd gotten a lot better, hunting with his wife, though. Ellie strategised as naturally as breathing, and she'd taught Dean to play chess over the years they'd spent in North Carolina. Sam thought Dean was still too impatient for the really long-view strategies, and not inclined to sacrifice any piece purely for a tactical advantage, but he was good at seeing advantages and he'd absorbed a lot of her cold objectivity.

_He's a lot more like Dad now_, he realised, but without the fury and the fear that had driven their father on his preordained path. The sense of limitless strength, infinite determination, that was what he could see in his brother as he stood by the table, his eyes dark and his face thoughtful as he listened to Twist.

"Frank's got another location, in Omaha," Dean said, turning to Laney. "It could be just the one, or it might be both."

"Kitra and Chuma split off from the others six months ago," Baraquiel looked at the blonde woman. "Chasina said they went looking for other compatible descendants when they failed to find the precise location of the Winchesters."

"Even if we can trap them there, how do we bring them back?" Laney looked from the Watcher to Dean.

"Castiel will move them," Bezaliel leaned forward across the table. "Sariel and I will be with you."

Laney's face screwed up. "I thought the angels hated them?"

Dean smiled. "Cas isn't quite so hidebound as his brothers."

"Alright." He looked around the room. "Laney, Carl, Bezaliel, Sariel, Greg and Oran, you're backup for tomorrow but point on Omaha."

Laney nodded, glancing at her people. They would be strictly observers unless needed.

"Twist, Baraquiel, Sam, Trish and Red, you'll be taking the front entrance of the house. Dwight, Katherine, Idan, you'll be taking the back southeast corner. Soleil, Eddie, Adam, Sagi and me'll take the back southwest corner." He glanced at Ellie for a moment then back to those sitting in front of him. "Callie, you and Sima stay on the road until you get a call to come in. If we fuck this up, we'll need a fast exit, and you keep the engines running."

Sam saw Callie twitch beside Soleil, and the older woman laid a quelling hand on her ward's arm. _Not so happy with being far from the action_, he thought absently, returning his attention to his brother.

"Any hit will slow them down, they heal fast though, so make sure of your targets and don't get close until they've stopped moving," he said, looking around at the faces staring at him. "We'll be there just after midday, but we'll take the house just after dark. Plenty of time to get an idea of what they're up to." He turned to Baraquiel. "You got a way to keep me and Sam off their crystal balls?"

Baraquiel nodded. "We've warded the cars. The, uh, protection you and Sam need is a little more complex."

Sam turned his head to look at the Watcher. "Say again?"

"It won't be too painful," Sariel looked at him with a faint grin. "And we have to have them as well, the children can see us as easily as you."

Sam looked at his brother. Dean gave him a half-shrug, his smile resigned.

* * *

The children had settled down to sleep with their cousins and Laney's girls comfortably and Sam came down the dimly lit stairs quietly. He'd just turned for the living room when he heard his brother's deep voice, and a lighter female voice, coming from the shadowy end of the hall near the basement door. He wasn't sure why he did it, but he froze in the blackness of the stairwell, staying out of sight and listening to the conversation.

"I'm old enough to do my part."

_Callie_, Sam thought, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he looked down the hall. She stood in front of Dean.

"That's not the issue, Callie," he heard his brother say patiently. "You don't need to be in the firing line here, look at it as a way to get experience."

"I have experience, I have lots of experience," she said softly, stepping close to him and lifting her arms to wind around his neck. "Come on, there must be something I can do to convince you."

"Not the kind of experience I'm looking for," Dean said, stepping back and unwinding her from him. Sam heard the irritation in his brother's voice.

"I've been hunting with Soleil for years," she insisted, getting closer again. From where he stood, Sam heard his brother's deep exhale.

"Callie, forget it. One more word, and you'll be staying right here and baby-sitting the kids," Dean said tiredly, pushing her away. "One more."

"Why won't you trust me?"

Dean snorted. "I don't know you, and the little I've seen so far, is not that inspiring."

Sam heard Callie's mutter as she turned away and headed for the back porch. He gave his brother a wry smile as Dean walked the other way, coming up the hall and seeing him in the shadow of the staircase.

Dean shrugged. "What'd I do to deserve that?"

"No idea. Think you made an enemy?"

"No, she's a kid, she'll get over it." His gaze flickered up the stairs. "Did you want to talk about something?"

"No, just didn't want to get in the middle of that," Sam said, turning for the front door.

"Probably a good decision." Dean stopped at the foot of the stairs. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah."

* * *

Sam climbed the stairs slowly. The house seemed very empty without the children in it. He walked into the bedroom and looked around, Tricia's presence visible in the smooth lump under the covers on one side of the bed, the bedside lamp on his nightstand a soft spill of light in the dimness.

He'd spent the last five years here, he thought, waking up every morning to the pale blue walls and the white woodwork trim, the dark blue drapes and his wife's warmth curled up next to him. It still shocked him, in a distant, vague kind of way, that this was his home, that he didn't need to pack his clothes into a duffle and leave it. He pulled off his clothes, throwing them over the box at the end of the bed, and crawled under the covers, reaching out to flip off the lamp.

Tricia made a small noise and rolled over toward him, and he felt the instant glow of acceptance as she slid her arm over his ribs, one thigh draping over his.

"You okay?" she murmured softly, her voice slightly slurred with sleep.

"Mmm. Yeah, I'm fine," he said, his arm automatically curling around her shoulders, chin lifting as she tucked her head against his chest.

He listened to her breathing slip back into the steady pattern of sleep. He was, for the most part, completely okay. And he couldn't talk about what he was not okay with until after the job. Maybe not even then, he acknowledged honestly. He didn't know if he could risk this, this very-close-to-perfect life they'd made together.

_I had to be myself, no lies_.

Was he himself, here? He'd always been able to shut off completely the things he hadn't wanted to remember. To face. Did that make him less himself? Did he even know himself? Dean seemed to, seemed to be comfortable with himself. Had that really been telling Ellie everything and saying take it or leave it?

He closed his eyes. It wasn't the events or the acts themselves. It was how they made him feel about himself. He didn't know if he would survive reliving those things and seeing himself in Tricia's eyes, the way he'd really been.

_Last I checked, it wasn't the road to heaven that was paved with good intentions._

He pushed the thought away, and brushed his lips over Trish's hair. He'd changed a lot. He'd learned a lot. He could face what he'd done, what he'd felt. With help.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

Sam lay stretched out in the ditch, partially covered with leaves, the blood over his chest and back itching as crusted and flaked. The protective sigils were large, elaborate and covered him from shoulder to hip, front and back, painted in goat's blood and a mixture of pungent-smelling herbs and driving him crazy with the desire to scratch it all off.

Two hundred yards in front of him, the firstborn's house glowed like a jewel in the deepening night, rich, golden lights spilling from the curtainless windows and glass-paned doors, the long swimming pool shining turquoise against the dark ground. It looked like a movie set, he thought vaguely, a concrete construction of squares and boxes, nothing personal in view, even the views he had into the interior showed a glossy magazine layout with comfortless furniture and bare concrete walls. To the Watchers, the exterior was layered in faintly gleaming wards of guarding and deflection, sigils against Heaven and against their own fathers. The humans couldn't see the markings and symbols.

He glanced at his watch. Another minute and they would start to move down the hillside. The plan, simple as it was, still depended on where they found the nephilim and what kind of weapons they had inside the house. Everyone was wearing Frank's much-maligned and recently acquired Second Chance vests, and he hoped it would be enough if the children of the Watchers turned out to have an arsenal in there.

Throughout the afternoon, they'd watched the place, seeing the three nephilim moving around. Dean had positively identified Maluch and Reuma, Bezaliel had confirmed Idra. Most of the ground-floor windows were designed not to open, which helped with narrowing the possible escape routes. Laney and her crew were ready with the diversion.

He heard Tricia move up beside him. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

They rose from the ground, shedding leaf matter and branches, Baraquiel and Twist and Red a few feet from them, their faces painted in broad, uneven smears of black and green and grey.

No flashlights, relying on the light thrown up from the house below to see the trees and branches and rocks and holes, moving slowly, carefully as they traversed the slope, dropping onto the concrete apron that separated the large garage from the front of the house. Tricia drew a small device from her pocket and pressed the switch in the centre, and the soft soles of their boots made little noise as they slipped through the darkness that blanketed the windowless front wall of the house. Frank's little jammer would have stopped the security camera feed around the exteriors of the house.

Sam knelt in front of the door, looking at the electronic keypad and card lock. He pulled a small flat grey box from his pack, slipped the card into the slot and held the box close to the card, the tiny readout cycling through number combinations in reverse until it reached the correct five-digit code. The heavy mortise clicked back and he pushed the door, freeing the card and tucking card and box back into the bag.

_People really needed to do more research on home security_, he thought absently as he watched Baraquiel, Red and Twist slip through the open door, Tricia following them. He got to his feet and closed the door behind him.

* * *

The hallway was very wide, tiled and virtually empty, a closed door to his immediate right the closet, he thought. He opened it and looked in, closing it again when he was proved correct. They pulled out their weapons, slipping safeties off and checking that they were loaded and cocked. Then they walked down the hall.

What happened over the next ten minutes, he only really understood later, when he'd had a chance to replay the events slowly to himself. The lights went out first. He remembered that clearly.

At the end of the hall, shadows flickered across the wall, and Red turned and dropped.

"Down, they're there," he shouted, opening fire toward the movement as a muzzle flashed in the darkness in front of them and Sam felt two bullets hit his chest, knocking him backwards to the floor.

"Trish, you okay?" He rolled fast to the wall, arm reaching out and grabbing her wrist, pulling her close to him.

She grunted softly, and in the dimness he saw her hands close around her thigh, pressing tightly.

"Hit in the leg," she murmured softly as she tried to pull in a deeper breath. He pulled her beside him. One ugly metal flower gleamed dully from the centre of her chest.

"Let me see," he said, ignoring the expanding dread that tried to take over. Against the darker clothing, her hands seemed mottled and he realised that blood was spilling over them. His fingers found the small hole through the front of the thigh, and slipped around to the back, a larger, torn section of flesh coating his hand in her warm blood as he felt around.

He reached for the small kit and pulled it out, ignoring the continuous gunfire behind him. The kit contained a half a dozen four inch chemical lightsticks, and he broke one, the reaction giving off a faint blue light, enough for him to see what he was doing, not bright enough to present a clear target.

"In and out, not sure if it hit the artery, Trish," he said softly as he pulled the thick dressings free of their antiseptic wrappings, folding one down over the entry hole, and the other against the exit hole. She nodded slightly, her face stony against the acid-burn pain of the injury as he wound a pressure bandage tightly over the dressings and around her leg.

"This will hold for about half an hour, then it needs to be loosened," he said, looking at her. She smiled thinly. In half an hour they would either have contained the nephilim and there would plenty of time to look at the wound, or they would all be dead.

He looked at her gun, handing it to her. "Go back, by the door and stay out of sight. If they come down here, shoot for the heart or head, just give them the whole clip."

She nodded again and began to inch backwards, dragging the leg as she slid along the wall. He turned away, following the Watcher and the men up the hall. He could hear the whistle and shriek of Laney's fireworks behind the house, and under it, more firing.

"Trish okay?" Twist turned back to him.

He nodded. "Let's get the trap down."

They moved fast up the hall, ears tracking the shouts and gunfire around the hard, echoing rooms and corridors. The hall opened into a big living area, empty as they entered. Twist and Red pushed back the loosely arranged sofas and chairs, and Baraquiel pulled the bottle of holy oil from his pack, moving around the room in a large circle, the oil splashing out onto the tiles in a thick, viscous trail as he walked. The circle blocked the entrance to the front hall and Sam and Baraquiel took up positions to either side of the circle, Sam in the entrance hall and the Watcher in front of the glass doors that opened onto the patio, as Red and Twist reloaded their guns and walked down another hall toward the noise.

Sam pulled out his lighter as he heard the slap of running feet along the hard tile floors, somewhere in the house. To the right, down the smaller, secondary hallway that Twist had taken, he heard a volley of shooting, Twist's Uzi submachine gun rat-tatting sharply, and a louder, deeper fusillade, possibly a Kalashnikov, he thought, on semi-automatic fire.

He looked at the Watcher, who nodded once, and they crouched by the oil, waiting. Sam saw the barrel first, the nephilim holding it bursting out through the end of the hallway, one foot skating as it touched the edge of the oil circle and he tried to slow when he saw his father. The flames touched the oil and the oil caught, Idra staring at Baraquiel as he rose from the crouch, head snapping around as he caught Sam's slow rise in the corner of his eye.

"Drop the weapon, Idra, it's over," Baraquiel said quietly. "Where are Maluch and Reuma?"

Sam watched the nephilim twitch in the centre of the circle, not wanting to believe he was trapped, that he didn't still have options. The half-breed was tall, not quite as tall as his father, but wider, heavier, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, his hair cut short, the colour lighter than Baraquiel's, more of a red-gold in the light of the fire that surrounded him. His face was smooth and pale, his eyes a deep blue. Sam saw his fingers tighten around the barrel of the AK47 he held, and he raised his gun.

"Don't."

Idra looked at him, brow furrowing as he recognised him. "You can't take all of us."

"You can't raise the circle with less than nine," Baraquiel said mildly behind him. "And even if you could, you would be killed before you started."

Idra turned back to his father. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"You were children at the time, Idra. It was the council's decision and it was agreed, Lucifer could not have a way to return to Heaven." Baraquiel looked at him steadily, sadness in his voice.

"You condemned us all to living here, with these monkeys, instead of being able to claim our heritage!"

"Well, you certainly sound like the seraphim," Baraquiel said dryly. "Who was it that filled your ears with that particular line of fantasy?"

Idra stared at him, uncertainty clouding his features for a moment. "Maluch told us, when he found out the truth."

"Maluch was wrong, Idra," Sam said softly. "The angels, the archangels, they hate the nephilim."

"What would you know?" Idra spun around to face him. "A monkey, despite the blood that flows in your veins."

Sam's mouth thinned at the comment. "The angels haven't made a secret of how they feel about half-breeds."

He swung around at the slur of a sole on the tiles in the hall, lowering his gun as he saw Soleil come around the corner.

"Baraquiel, we need you," she said, looking past Sam and Idra as if she didn't see them.

The Watcher nodded, walking around the circle to her. "What happened, Soleil?"

"One of the nephilim broke through," she said, glancing at Sam.

"Is Dean okay?"

She nodded. "Yes. It's Bezaliel."

"I'll stay," Sam answered Baraquiel's unspoken question, turning back to Idra. The Watcher strode away, Soleil on his heels.

Idra was looking at the floor. Neither man nor nephilim said anything.

* * *

Sam looked up at the sound of wings in the closed space. Castiel stood beside the circle, Chasina and Lazio held tightly to either side of him, their hands bound behind them. He thrust the two through the flames and into the circle, his face impassive at their screams as they crossed the line and fell to the floor in the centre.

"What happened?" The angel turned to Sam.

"Maluch killed Bezaliel and broke through. They have Reuma in the circle at the back of the house," Sam said. "Trish is down by the front door, Cas. She took a bullet in the leg."

Castiel looked at him and turned abruptly, walking fast to the front door. In the dim shadows, Sam saw him crouch down beside her, a warm, white glow lighting up the corner she sat in. The angel helped her to her feet a moment later and she walked back up the hall with him, unpeeling the pressure bandage and pulling off the blood-soaked dressing as she approached.

"Where are others?"

Sam gestured to the narrower hallway on the other side of the circle. A short flutter in the air bowed the flames of the circle for a second and was gone.

He turned back to Tricia. "You okay?"

"Better now, I was getting a bit woozy for a while there," she said, slinging her gun over her shoulder and looking at the nephilim in the circle. "Have they tried to get out?"

Sam turned to look at them as well. Chasina and Lazio lay on the floor, the scorch marks and blistered flesh from the holy fire clear even at a distance. "No, and I don't think they will now."

* * *

They left Lovelock at dawn, the four nephilim remaining in the house, held in three concentric circles of oil and flame, and Castiel staying to watch them. The six hour drive home was silent. Bezaliel had been killed by his son, who'd somehow managed to get through the net of hunters and escape into the night, severely burned by his break across the fire, but still alive. Eddie had died in the crossfire when the nephilim had come from the front of the house. Red, Oran, Sariel, Dean and Katherine had all taken hits. Castiel had healed them before they'd left. They'd burned the bodies on pyres, away from the house.

It hadn't been until they'd done that, that Soleil had realised the station wagon had gone, Callie with it. Baraquiel had looked into the scrying bowl and seen the car and the girl driving east, Maluch in the seat behind her, the semi-automatic pressed against the back of her head.

Sam sat in the backseat of the Impala, his arm wrapped around his wife, staring out the window as the sun rose slowly through the peaks and the traffic on the road gradually increased. His gaze cut across to the front seat. Dean drove steadily, his face expressionless, hands light on the wheel. Sam wondered how much guilt his brother had taken on board for the deaths, for Maluch's escape and Callie's kidnapping. He didn't know how to ask. Or even if he should.

Beside his brother, Soleil was curled into the corner between the seat and the door, silent and withdrawn. Eddie had been her partner for a long time, Sam knew. He'd only met Eddie in Garber, in '09. He'd thought it'd been by chance that the hunter had shown up in time to see off Bose, Hull and Janklow when they'd returned later. But nothing was chance, and he'd found out later that Soleil had sent him, to make sure that they didn't kill him. That debt, among others, couldn't be repaid now. To either of them.

A part of him knew it was just the life they lived. He was pretty sure that both Dean and Soleil knew that as well. Another part wished that he didn't know anything about this life. It was still there, that old desire to forget about the things in the dark, forget about his family's history, forget that he'd brought on the end of the world, and saved it. There wasn't a way, it seemed, to get rid of that part, to really be comfortable with who he was and what he did. An inch to the right and Tricia could've bled out before Cas got there. Dean had had a shallow furrow along his scalp. An inch lower and he could've been without his brother.

_Don't you get it? The demons will never stop. You can never be with your family. So you either get as far away from them as possible or you put a bullet in your head. And that's how you keep your family safe. But there's no getting out and there's no going home._

He sighed deeply, remembering his words to Jimmy, seeing the man's face in his mind's eye again. It had seemed like there were no options back then.

_You remember when our job was helping people? Like, getting them back to their families? _Dean had looked at him, his uncertainty and dislike of what they were doing obvious._ You think I don't want to help him? I'm just being realistic. I mean, hell, we're doing him a favour._

For a long time, he'd been in that mindset, rationalising the evil out of his actions, telling himself it was all for the greater good, for a higher purpose. The truth was, there was no higher purpose that was ever justified in pain and suffering. You could sacrifice yourself, but never anyone else, and Dean had known that. And somewhere, far down, he'd known it too.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Sam watched his brother get out of the car, walk slowly up the porch steps and crouch down to enfold his children in his arms, seeing the tension flow out of him as he picked up Rosie and looked down at Ellie, her hand lifting to lay her palm against the side of his face. He saw Dean's eyes close briefly as if she'd taken something from him. The moment was over too fast to understand what had passed between them. He only knew that he felt a sudden yearning for that comfort, for that understanding.

He got out and followed Tricia up to the porch, bending to hug to Marc and Laura as she took Adrianne from Ellie. He picked up both children, waiting for Soleil to walk inside first and following her. Behind them, the cars slowly came down the driveway, pulling in behind each other, the hunters getting out and filing slowly into the house.

* * *

The dining table was extended and the chairs around it filled, the men and women eating with little appetite from the platters of food that covered the centre.

"Frank's checking the cameras he can access," Ellie said quietly to Dean as Sam sat down next to them. "He'll have a direction and a route in a couple of hours."

Sam picked up a sandwich and took a bite, looking over at her. "He'll be heading for Omaha, won't he?"

She nodded. "That's the best guess."

She glanced at Soleil worriedly and the older woman turned her head and looked at her emotionlessly.

"Maluch would be a fool not to question Callie on what we know," she said, a shadow in her eyes as she acknowledged what kind of questioning that would be. "We have to expect that she will tell him, and that they won't stay in Omaha."

Ellie drew in a deep breath. "Whatever they have there is protected, against the angels and the Watchers, it won't be so easy for them to give that up and put themselves on the run."

"And he's injured, badly," Dean added softly. "He won't be up to much in the way of doing anything … forceful … for a time."

"The nephilim heal fast, Dean." Soleil looked down at the sandwich on her plate doubtfully. "I don't know how much time we have."

"Carl and Twist have already headed out there, and I've called Charlie and Jeremy to meet them. They'll keep eyes on until we can get there in force," Laney looked down the table at Dean. "We just need a few more and we can take them there."

Sam felt Tricia's hand curl lightly around his arm. He glanced at her, seeing the slight shake of her head as she looked at him. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. Whoever was needed would go, he wasn't going to back out if Dean asked him.

He turned his head back to his brother in time to see Dean looking at Ellie.

"Laney, you and Dean, Dwight and Katherine and Oran," Ellie said, looking at them.

"And _moi_, chere," Soleil added quickly, looking from Ellie to Dean.

"Your head isn't in the right place for this, Soleil," Dean said.

"Callie is my responsibility, Dean," she countered fiercely. "I must be there."

"Alright," Ellie agreed, glancing at Dean, her head inclined slightly. "But you're there for Callie, _oui_? Not for Maluch. You follow orders."

Soleil looked at her for a long moment. "Yes, _oui_, all right."

Sam felt Tricia's fingers relax in his and he turned to his brother. "What about the rest of us?"

Dean looked down at the sandwich in his hands. "Frank'll be able to give us a direction and if they've gone to Nebraska, then that's great. But there's always a possibility that Maluch will try and get Kitra and Chuma to meet him elsewhere, and that he'll come here," he said slowly, looking down the table. "In which case, everyone else stays put. They still need us, so we're not taking chances."

"When do we go?" Laney asked, picking up her beer and chugging a mouthful.

"As soon as Frank confirms that they're really going east," Dean said. "Soleil and me'll ride with you, Laney. Dwight and Kath can take Oran with them."

He looked at them. "Check that we've got everything we need, and this time we load up with hollow-points, nothing under .45 calibre, grab some from the armoury if you don't have anything suitable of your own." He looked at Baraquiel. "We're done pussy-footing around with these dicks, if they go into the circle, that's fine, otherwise we put them into the ground."

Baraquiel looked at Chazaquiel and Sariel briefly, then nodded reluctantly in agreement.

* * *

Sam found Ellie in the basement, keying in a search pattern for the accessible security cameras in and around Omaha. She glanced up as he pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

"Do you think they've gone there?"

"Maybe. The burns from the holy oil aren't like other injures, Maluch won't heal from them like he would a bullet wound or being stabbed, they attack the angel in him," she said absently, fingers flying over the keyboard as she moved from department to department within the government's network. "He'll need somewhere safe to go."

"Will he torture Callie, to find out what she knows?" he asked, mouth thinning at the images that brought.

"Dean said that his skin was burned off in places, blistered as if he'd had a blowtorch on him in others," she said slowly, hitting Enter and turning to look at him. "He's not going to be doing much in the way of anything, I'd say. And at the moment, he's aware that we won't be sitting still, letting him go. So I think Callie's relatively safe for a little while longer."

He nodded. "I was surprised you let him go."

Ellie's face scrunched up a little. "Let him go?"

"You know … didn't ask him to stay here," Sam fished around for what he meant. "He took the deaths hard."

"I don't know why people keep thinking I have any control over Dean," she said, shaking her head. "He does what he has to."

"You can influence him, though, Ellie, he listens to you," Sam insisted.

"He listens to everyone, Sam, and then he makes up his own mind." She looked around as the machine behind her beeped softly. "You know, he'll always take responsibility for the things he puts into action, Sam. That is never going to change and it never should. But he's figured out how to deal with the guilt over the people who don't make it."

"Has he?"

She typed in a new command, eyes narrowed as the screen divided into a number of small frames, each showing a different section of the city streets. "The thing that took him the longest to get his head around was that people make their own choices. And that he's not responsible for those choices," she said softly, turning back to face him. "Eddie and Bezaliel were hunters. Had been for a long time. They knew the risks, they knew the dangers and they chose to be there. Dean knows that's not on him."

Sam nodded. "And Callie?"

He watched the corner of her mouth lift slightly in a one-sided smile. "Callie tried to make Dean put her closer to the action, didn't she?"

He looked away. "You knew about that?"

"You sound surprised," she said, her smile widening.

"I am, I guess," he said, with a sheepish shrug. "It's probably not something I'd've told Trish about, in the same circumstances."

Ellie's smiled disappeared. "Sam, there are a lot of things you should tell Trish about."

He looked at her, seeing an understanding and a very gentle warning in her face.

"I don't know that I can risk that."

She licked her lips, watching him in silence for a long moment. "I think that the risks of not doing it are much higher than the risks of doing it. For both of you."

Sam felt a shiver skate up his back as her words sank in. He nodded, looking away.

* * *

The bedroom was dimly lit by the single lamp, throwing a pool of light over his nightstand, leaving the rest in shades of grey. Tricia always left it on, if she went to bed before him. He pulled off his clothes and crawled into the bed, hand hesitating over the lamp switch off as he settled. He pulled it away as he glanced at the woman who lay beside him.

His brother had been right. Ellie was right. He couldn't keep going like this, hiding his crap away as if it didn't exist. He'd never be free of it. He'd never be able to be himself.

"Trish? You awake?" he murmured, rolling over onto his side.

"Mmm … yeah, what it is, Sam?" She turned to face him, her eyes narrowing a little against the lamp light.

"I –" He took a deep breath. "There's some stuff I need to tell you, that you need to know about."

She looked at him, and nodded, shifting higher on the pillows and rubbing a hand over her face. "Okay."

He thought about where to start.

_At the beginning …_


	18. Chapter 18 Checkmate

**Chapter 18 Checkmate**

* * *

_**I-80 E, Nebraska**_

"Dean, wake up."

A hand pushed his shoulder and he opened his eyes, knuckling them and straightening up in the seat.

"My turn?" he asked, looking at Soleil, who was driving. She nodded, indicating as she changed lanes to pull off the interstate and down to the gas station whose bright lights were waning as the imminent sunrise lightened the sky ahead of them.

"And breakfast. This thing drinks gas, we need to fill up," she said softly, mindful of the woman still sleeping in the seat behind them.

He looked around, rubbing both hands over his face and through his hair. Kearney. He recognised the turn-off and leaned against the door. Another two hours and they'd be there.

Glancing behind him, he saw Dwight's pale blue pickup behind them, orange light flicking in time with theirs, following them down the off-ramp. They'd made alright time. Ellie had called a few hours ago to give them an update on the location of the firstborn, an industrial building to the north of the city. None of them had speculated on what they would find, or what they would do when they got there. The situation would become obvious once they'd arrived.

He wasn't convinced it'd been a good call to let Soleil come along. She was a good hunter, a clever and pragmatic leader, but she and Eddie had been together for a long time, and her emotional involvement meant that she was a risk.

"_She will go, whether it's with you or on her own," Ellie had said, when they'd been alone before he'd left. "And she'll be much easier to contain if she's working with you, under your orders, than if she's freelancing."_

She was right; he'd known it at the time. He hoped Soleil'd follow orders. Ellie hadn't seemed all that concerned.

"_Use her anger, Dean, use her pain. She'll be faster, stronger, more determined with it," she'd told him pragmatically._ He wasn't sure he liked the idea of using Soleil's feelings, knowing how she felt, on a job, especially on this job. But he was prepared to admit that Soleil had been cold, competent and completely professional so far.

The black truck pulled up beside the pumps and he got out, stretching stiff limbs and walking around to the gas cap. Soleil got out as well, rotating her shoulders and looking over at him.

"Coffee? What else?"

He unscrewed the gas tank cap and set the nozzle of the pump in. "Pie, if they have any."

He caught a glimpse of a small, wry smile as she turned away, running a hand through her short, dark hair. He looked up as a tousled blonde head appeared in the rear window next to him.

Laney wound down the window and yawned as she leaned out. "Where are we?"

"Kearney," he said, watching the readout on the pump. "Another couple of hours."

She nodded, looking over at the store. "I need coffee. Gallons of it."

She got out and staggered across the concrete paving, stretching haphazardly as she went. The driver at the next pump raised an eyebrow as he watched her, turning back to Dean.

"Bet you're having a good trip," he said with a wink.

Dean smiled automatically, unhooking the nozzle as the pump stopped and replacing it. He screwed up the cap and walked to the driver's door, getting in.

_Oh yeah_, he thought sourly, _great trip_. Heading toward a fight with the most powerful angel/human hybrids on the planet, for a showdown that would likely result in more deaths, his family left behind without his protection … good times.

He tipped his head back and exhaled gustily. It wasn't that bad. There would be ten of them, against three. And the Watchers had stayed in Oregon, to check the movement of the firstborn, to help the hunters who'd remained to protect Sam and Trish and Ellie and the kids. It was … as good as they'd been able to manage. And Sam and Ellie had a bolt-hole. The panic room was proof against the nephilim, in the very worst case, it would keep them safe.

The passenger door opened and he looked around, taking the cardboard cup of coffee and the cellophane-wrapped piece of pie from Laney as she got in, Soleil getting in the back.

"Thanks," he said, starting the truck and pulling out. Laney glanced sideways at him.

"You been sitting here worrying again, Dean?"

"Me? Nah, just wondering why we took this piece of junk instead of a real car," he said, shifting his shoulder aside as she reached out to thump him.

* * *

They were just passing the signs for the Pawnee Lake State park when his phone rang. He pulled it out and passed it to Laney, half-listening as he took the bypass around Lincoln.

"What? No, just stay there," Laney said, frustration in her voice. Dean glanced at her as she twisted in her seat.

"Jeremy just did a look around the address Frank gave us," she said tightly. "It's empty. They were there, now they're gone."

He heard the hiss of Soleil's indrawn breath behind him.

"What do you want to do?" Laney looked at him.

"Tell them to stay put," he said, lifting his watch. "We'll be there soon. We need to see it."

"You hear that, Jer?" Laney said. "No, just get Charlie and Twist to watch the other side. Yeah, we want to have a good, close look over the place. Okay."

She closed the phone and handed it back to him. "Did they see us coming, or was the plan to run all along?"

"Does it matter?" Soleil asked from behind her, leaning forward between them, her arms resting along the back of the seat. "They've gone."

"Soleil, call Ellie. Tell her to get Baraquiel and Sariel to check on their location. If they're out of their hideout, they should be able to see them," Dean said quietly. "Laney, let Dwight know what's going on."

The women nodded and for the next few minutes, the murmur of their voices filled the truck, a soft background to his thoughts. Maluch had been badly injured and the Watchers had confirmed that he wouldn't heal quickly from the burns of the holy oil. They probably were watching for them, he thought. They might not have been able to see the others, but they would've seen him. He should've driven the Impala.

Soleil closed the phone and leaned forward. "Carl called Ellie when they found the place empty. She's had the Watchers looking but she says they can't see them."

_Crap_. He nodded. "They warded your car, Soleil. The nephilim are probably using it."

Laney closed her phone and rubbed her forehead. "No one disappears without a trace, we'll find something."

* * *

_**Omaha, Nebraska**_

The building was close by the river, north of the airport and Dean saw Carl's red pickup parked next to the big loading dock doors as he drove into the gravelled parking lot, a nondescript beige sedan parked next to it.

As they pulled up, Carl and Charlie walked out of the dim interior to meet them.

"We've looked around, but there's nothing obvious," Charlie said, her short blonde hair covered in dust from crawling around the rooms that had shown signs of occupation. Carl nodded.

Dean looked around. "Where're Twist and Jeremy?"

"On the other side," Carl said, pointing to the building. "They had a four-wheel drive but they burned it when they left."

"Definitely in your wagon then, Soleil," Laney said, looking at the tall woman.

"How're we going to find them if the car's invisible to the Watchers and the angels?" Charlie looked at Dean. He shrugged.

"Let's see if we can find anything here, first. Then we'll worry about tracking them." He wasn't sure that they would find anything, but as Laney had said, no one disappeared without leaving any trace, and the firstborn had been living here for a while.

They walked into the building through the loading dock, and split into pairs. Dean walked with Soleil deeper inside, heading for the metal stairs that led up to the second level. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial number for home.

Ellie answered on the first ring. The sound of her voice was a welcome respite from the tension that had filled him since Jeremy's call this morning.

"_Hey._"

"Hey, everything alright there?" he asked, stopping at the top of the stairs to look around.

"_Yeah, all quiet here_," she answered, her voice perfectly clear in his ear. "_You got anything?_"

"No, just got here. Can you get Frank to run the usual checks on the satellite and cell signals from this address?"

"_Sure._" He heard the hesitation in her voice and knew what she was going to say. "_They're together now, there probably won't be any._"

"I know, just … trying to cover all the bases," he said, exhaling softly. "I gotta go, but … Ellie …"

"_I_ _will. We're better guarded here than Fort Knox, Dean. Don't worry about us_," she said softly. He closed his eyes, hoping that was right, that they were, that they would remain safe and out of it.

"I'll call, if I find anything."

"_Yeah, me too_." He heard the line cut out and closed the phone, dragging in a deep breath and gesturing to the other end of the building as he looked at Soleil. "You want to start down that end? I'll meet you in the middle."

Soleil nodded and turned away, walking fast to the other end of the long hall. Dean turned in the opposite direction.

The end he'd chosen seemed to have been used for living areas, big open rooms held sofas and armchairs, tables and chairs, rugs had been laid over the bare, timber boards. He found the kitchen, and glanced in the fridge, noting that the milk was still fresh, still within its use-by date. They hadn't left much earlier. He walked down a short hall and came to a bedroom, almost empty but for a double bed. He looked at the bedhead, seeing the scratches in the paint that coated the metal. 'Cuffs, he thought, straightening up and looking around. Callie's room. Beside the bed, it held a chest of drawers, empty and dusty, and another door led into a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower recess.

He stood in the bathroom and looked around, chewing on the corner of his lip. The sun lifted a little higher, and came through the small window, lighting up the wall behind the cistern. A tiny shadow, against the smooth, white tile caught his eye and he leaned close to it.

Most of the day the tiles on the wall beside the cistern tank were in shadow and the faint scratching wouldn't have shown, he thought, not without a rubbing or noticing it somehow first.

_Akron._

There was only one Akron he knew of. He didn't know how Callie had known that was where they were heading and he didn't care particularly. It was a direction. He straightened up and walked out of the bathroom, moving fast to meet Soleil.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Ellie strode into the long, elegant dining room without knocking, Talya trailing behind her.

"Anything?"

Baraquiel looked up from the silver bowl, his dark blue eyes widening in surprise. "No, I would've called you if we'd found anything, Ellie."

"There has to be a way we can see them," she said, sitting down at the table and staring at him. "A spell – or – or something."

"This is pretty much it," Sariel said from the other side of the table. "I'm sorry, I know you're worried, but there's nothing else we can do but watch for them in this."

"Where's Chaz?"

"He's sleeping," Baraquiel replied, looking back into the smooth surface of the liquid that filled the bowl. "He watched this morning."

Ellie heard a cool edge along the Watcher's voice and frowned at him. "You think I'm taking this too personally, Baraquiel?"

Sariel looked up at her and at over to the other Watcher. "Ellie, we know what it at stake here, we are all doing our best to find a solution."

Baraquiel remained silent, staring into the bowl and Ellie felt her anger rise. "They are your children, Baraquiel, and they are after my family, so you'll have to forgive me for not cutting you much slack on making every single effort to find them."

The red-haired Watcher raised his head slowly, turning to look at her. "Eleanor, we have been here, fighting to protect humanity for more than three thousand years. We took vows to God to teach and serve and help your species learn to evolve into what He wanted them to become. Do you think, for even a moment, I would put anything above those vows? That I would not do my utmost to find the children and to contain them? I agreed to sacrifice two of the Nine so that Heaven could not be breached. I will do no less now!"

The flat crack of his voice echoed off the walls of the room. Ellie stared at him, hoping he was telling her the whole truth. Some part of her, the cool, calculating hunter part of her, wondered.

"They travel in a vehicle that we have warded. They are hidden from our sight unless they leave it," he continued in a more moderate tone. "They will not harm your family, not now. They certainly will not harm Dean, who will be essential to forming the Circle if they cannot rejoin the rest." He drew in a deep breath and turned back to the bowl.

"It was not us who brought the firstborn together," Chazaquiel leaned against the doorway and looked at Ellie. "The possibility was awakened in them when your children began to manifest the powers that grow in them daily."

"Chazaquiel," Baraquiel's voice was a soft warning.

Ellie looked at the dark Watcher standing by the door. "What do you mean?"

Chazaquiel looked past her and shrugged slightly. "Nothing."

Ellie's head snapped around to Baraquiel. "What does he mean?"

Baraquiel exhaled softly, his breath rippling the liquid in the bowl slightly. "There is no way to foresee a person who lies outside of the lines of the destiny," he said, looking at her. "Your children weren't foreseen when the Council gave the decree to safeguard the Circle and prevent the Nine from ever being able to form it. Our sacrifice was for nothing."

Sariel cleared his throat. "It's the bloodlines, Ellie. We looked ahead and we couldn't see this outcome. No descendant of ours should've had the power to awaken the firstborn. But your unexpected survival and the union with the Winchesters – all the bloodlines are complete in your children. Azazel, Araquiel and Amaros, the key to –"

"Sariel," Baraquiel snapped, shaking his head as he turned to Ellie. "The bloodlines woke them. Woke something inside them, a connection between them. They would've remained unaware otherwise."

Ellie stared at him. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"

He looked at her, mouth twisting disparagingly. "What purpose would that have served? It neither furthers our search nor gives any comfort. It is a useless fact, on its own."

"Don't ask us to kill our children, as you killed yours," she said very softly, her gaze fixed on his face. He met her eyes for a moment and looked down at the bowl.

"No. That was a mistake, on our part, to believe we could circumvent destiny by such a simplistic means," he said, with a quiet, aching regret. "Whatever this is, this juxtaposition of events and blood, it will not be stopped by anything that simple."

He looked up at her. "Ellie, we have fought with and for you and yours, protected you as much as we could. Please. Believe that we are doing our best."

She searched his face, his eyes, for the truth, seeing only sincerity. If he was being manipulated, she thought analytically, it was being done without his knowledge. She nodded and got up, leaving the room and heading back to her house.

* * *

_**I-80 E, Iowa**_

"Akron's not a small town, Dean," Laney said, looking at the concentration in his face.

"Unless they all slept in the car, Sariel said he might be able to pick up traces of where they'd been," he answered her tersely, changing lanes as another car ahead refused to go faster than the posted fifty-five. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, meeting Soleil's eyes. "Callie might be able to leave us something else if we can find where they stayed."

"If, if, if …" The blonde hunter shook her head. "Too many of them."

"Yeah, well, what else is new?" he said, scowling at the road ahead of them. "Any other ideas, don't be shy about bringing 'em up."

The shrill ring of the phone in his jacket pocket made him jump and he dug the phone out, looking at the ID on the screen and connecting.

"Ellie? Tell me you have something," he said, pressing the phone tightly to his ear.

"_They went a little past Akron, Dean, stopped at a Super 8 in Brimfield_," Ellie's voice broke up a little and he waited for a moment, his mouth thinning as she came back much more faintly. "_On Beal Drive_."

"That a sure thing?"

"_Yeah, Baraquiel described the sign to me_," she said, a crackle of static cutting her off again. "_… like they're … west … know … tonight._"

"Ellie?" He looked around in frustration. "Ellie, I can't –"

The phone beeped in his ear and he closed it irritably. Laney raised an eyebrow.

"We got a destination?"

"Yeah, Brimfield," he said in a low voice. "And – maybe – they're heading west."

He put his foot down and glanced in the rear-view mirror, his gaze shifting past Soleil's grey eyes, watching him, to the three vehicles travelling behind them. One by one, they picked up their speed to match his.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Ohio**_

Ellie sat in the plantation chair on the porch and stared over the broad valley that stretched out below, her knees drawn tight up against her chest, arms wrapped around them.

There was a lot more to the story than the Watchers had told them, she realised. Baraquiel had been sincere in his desire to help, to put an end to what was happening, but he had his own loyalties still – to the others, to the nephilim, to Heaven even. In the years since his death, she'd romanticised her dealings with Penemue, she knew. He too had kept things from her, from humanity, that he had deemed too political or too dangerous to know. She should've known that the red-haired Watcher would do the same. He was sworn to protect humanity, but he'd Fallen, and his emotions were as human as any of theirs, despite the oft-referred-to greater view of history.

She closed her eyes and considered everything she did know about the Fallen and their children. There'd been twelve, originally, Baraquiel had said. Three had gone to join Lucifer in the First War, dying in that battle between the rebels and the Host of Heaven. Nine had been left and all had sworn to God to protect and teach humanity. They'd had wives and children. The children of those marriages had been the firstborn, and when one of Lucifer's followers had intimated that they could be used to form a doorway back to Heaven, the Council of the Watchers had come up with a plan to stop that possibility. Forever, they'd thought. They'd killed the daughter of Azazel, which had brought its own ruin and devastation, and the son of Amaros.

Neither Fallen angel had taken vows of celibacy, but when they'd looked down the paths of destiny it was foreseen that no subsequent child of either would hold the power to complete the Nine and build the Circle.

She opened her eyes and sighed softly against her arm. Until the Winchesters had saved her and had cut her loose from the wheels. Or lines. Or whatever you wanted to call the threads of fate. If she'd died with her parents, then Amaros' line would have died with her, apparently. And the firstborn would never have found out about their past, or the possibility of the Circle. She'd had a sense, months ago, that something big was turning in the universe, something that had ground slowly for millennia and was only now coming to its purpose.

Shamsiel had told her that in the Circle a key was still required. A key to Heaven. Chaz had been about to say something about it when Baraquiel had cut him off. Her face screwed up as she tried to bring up the memory, his exact words – the bloodlines, the three bloodlines of the Fallen that had been the same key as Lucifer had needed. Azazel, Araquiel and Amaros. Dean only held two. So did Sam, and Sam's children. Or did they? She'd never looked into Trish's heritage, although she knew that it held the bloodlines of some of the Watchers, the same as other long established hunting families. John and Rosie were the only ones she was sure held all three. She needed to find out more about the key. A lot more.

She unfolded herself from the chair and got up, stretching to loosen her muscles. Almost every document, manuscript, book and scroll that they'd collected had been fed into Frank's database. She walked back through the house, thinking about the possible searches she could run, to mine that information for what she needed to know.

* * *

_**Brimfield, Ohio**_

"Is this it?" Soleil looked at the door of the room, half-turning as she lifted a questioning brow at Dean. He nodded and watched as she pulled out a pick gun and opened the lock.

In the lot, the other hunters were scouring the rest of the motel. He didn't think they'd find anything, but it was necessary to look. He turned back to the door as Soleil pushed it open and walked in.

The room held two queen-sized beds and two singles, a long sofa and a small circular table with four chairs. The narrow kitchenette had already been cleaned, fresh sachets of coffee, tea, sugar and creamer filling the saucer next to the tray holding four cups.

"Bathroom," Dean said, jerking his head to the door on the other side of the room. "It's the only place she had enough privacy to do anything."

The three of them crowded into the small room and started to search the tiled walls, floor and cabinets for anything Callie could have left them. All three held flashlights, the beams pointed obliquely across the smooth surfaces, looking for shadows that wouldn't exist under the ordinary combination of daylight and interior lighting.

Laney found the lightly scratched word next to the taps in the shower recess. "I got it – I think," she said, angling the light and squinting at the white-on-white letters.

"What's it say?" Dean stepped into the recess behind her, bending slightly to look. "white con?"

He straightened up, looking at Soleil. "Mean anything to you? Looks like she couldn't finish whatever it was."

"Conway," Soleil said, her lips curving in a smile that didn't really hold any humour. "New Hampshire, on the edge of the White Mountains."

"You sure?" Laney peered past Dean at her.

"_Oui_, yes, it was – a joke, sort of," the other woman said, turning away. "We used to spend some time up north, in the winters. We went to the White Mountains a lot, to cross-country ski, teach Callie about winter survival." She gestured at the wall. "She knew I would know what it meant, but no one else would. The firstborn must be watching her more closely now."

Dean pulled his phone out, stepping out of the shower and walking out of the bathroom.

"Sam? Uh – where's Ellie?" He stopped in the middle of the room. "Oh, uh, yeah. Tell them both that Callie managed to leave another message – it looks like they're heading north now. Conway, New Hampshire. Yeah. Tell the Watchers look for them there."

He looked at his watch. This had been left last night, and it was about a fourteen hour drive to New Hampshire, depending on which way they went. They'd be getting close to Conway in a few hours.

"No. Right. No, we're heading out, we'll go straight through." He closed the phone, staring at the floor. Ellie had been with Frank the past three hours – looking for what, he wondered? Sam hadn't known.

"Dean."

He looked around, to see Laney looking into the trash can in the kitchenette. "What?"

"Trash hasn't been emptied," she said, tipping the can over. In amongst the remains of a take out meal, several empty cans and bottles of soda and water, there was a mass of soft gauze and bandages, all covered in a sticky, red-stained fluid. Laney pulled it out by a corner and Soleil knelt next to her, helping her to draw out the knotted mass. He looked down, nose wrinkling in distaste involuntarily as he took in the thicker, dried yellow matter at the centre of the mass of cloth, deeper stains of blood and, here and there, charred lumps of what could only be flesh that had fallen away as the bandages had been removed.

"Lovely."

"Maluch - he's not healing," Soleil said, looking up at him. "The wounds are infected, and possibly becoming gangrenous." She gestured to several blackened pieces of skin that still adhered to the bandages.

"Should slow him down," Dean commented, looking at the mess on the floor. If they drove through the night, taking shifts, they might be able to catch them before dawn. He thought about the possibilities of the quickest route to Conway.

"Come on, we gotta get going. We can probably catch them there."

Laney looked at Soleil as he turned away and left the room, seeing the other woman's eyes brighten suddenly. She reached out and gently touched Soleil's shoulder.

"Under orders, honey, remember?"

Soleil looked at her, the smile that stretched out her mouth completely devoid of any feeling. "I will do as I am told, _chère_."

* * *

_**I-87 N, New York**_

Dean heard the soft, burring noise from the back seat, even above the engine and the roar of the tyres over the asphalt. He glanced into the mirror, seeing Soleil's head bent, her gaze on something in her hands. He didn't need to see what she was holding; the sound was as familiar to him as his favourite songs.

"Soleil," he said quietly, and she lifted her head to meet his eyes in the mirror. "No wildcards, okay?"

"Tell that to Eddie, Dean," she said, her breath catching in the middle of the sentence as she leaned over the back of seat.

"He knew what he was in for, Soleil." He glanced at her, seeing the razor-sharp blade in the hand that was draped over the seat. "Knew what he'd signed on for."

She closed her eyes. She couldn't argue that. He always had. He could've lived another life.

Dean listened to the rasp of her breath in her throat, his eyes on the road.

"You know, _cher_, when I met him, he wanted us to quit. To get out, go sailing around the world." Her voice was much deeper, thicker. "I didn't want to. I told him that we were good at what we did, that any other life would be boring, yes?"

She looked at him, and in the mirror he saw her eyes were bright. "One day, you will stand where I am right now, and you will have to tell yourself that revenge is a sour dish, that you do not want to rend the monster that killed your reason for living limb from limb, that it is not worth it, that the pain will not be diminished."

He swallowed. He knew she could be right. It didn't change what he needed from her now.

"If we don't get them clean, if it looks like he's going to get away, you can do what you want," he said slowly. "But you said you'd follow my orders and while we've got a chance to do this right, those orders stand."

The silence stretched out between them, filled with his uneasiness and her pain. When she moved back and he heard the sound of the knife sliding back into its sheath, the stone returned to her bag, he let out a deep sigh of relief.

"I miss him, _cher_, I miss him so much," she said suddenly. "I wake in the morning and for the first few minutes, I've forgotten, I don't remember and then I do and …"

Her voice trailed away and he felt his throat close tightly, his memories crowding around him. He knew those waking moments. He'd been through that.

"You shouldn't be here, Soleil," he told her. "You should be grieving."

She looked at him and shook her head. "I cannot. Not until this is over. Until that creature is gone, one way or the other. I don't want to let him go until that's done."

In her voice, he could hear self-deprecation, her awareness of her own limits, her own weaknesses, underlying a more pragmatic tone. She would do what she had to do, and then deal with the grief afterwards. It was another thing he was familiar with, although he'd never found that it had worked all that successfully, at least not when he'd been on his own.

_The cafeteria in the hospital in Sioux Falls had been bright with sunshine, flooding through the big windows to the east, making the rather utilitarian-looking room warm and cheerful. He'd sat with Sam, legs stretched out under the table, filled with a calm and peace that had shocked and worried his brother. He hadn't explained to Sam what he'd felt at that moment, at that time; hadn't been able to articulate it all that well, even to himself. It'd been contentment, and he thought that Sam had gotten that, but it'd been more. A sense of belonging. A sense that no matter what happened, he was strong, strong enough to deal with it. He'd told Sam that he and Ellie would have to look out for each other, not just him trying to protect her._ In the years since that moment, his view of their life had continued to change, continued to evolve. It wasn't that simple, he'd found.

The dawning realisation that day, that he could be who he was and do what he had to, and have what he wanted as well, had been astonishing. It'd taken him a long time to believe in it. Longer to shake the feeling that he didn't deserve to have it. They hadn't talked about giving up, getting out, an unspoken understanding that what they did, who they were, was important enough to make the risk worthwhile. But that was tested, from time to time.

He didn't have a sense of what he would do, in Soleil's position. How he would feel. He tried to not think about it. At all. Ever.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The garden was black and white in the light of the half-moon, deeply silent, not even a distant plane's rumble to disturb the peace. Ellie stood on the lawn, arms crossed over her chest, head bowed as she prayed.

"Cas? Castiel … I need your help," she murmured softly, eyes closed as she waited for the angel.

The soft rustle of feathered wings was behind her and a little to the left, she thought, opening her eyes and turning around.

"Ellie, is everything alright?" Castiel looked up at the dark house. "Have the firstborn come?"

"No, no," she said quickly. "I need information about the descendants of Amaros."

Cas looked at her uncertainly. "Why?"

"Because the Watchers said that the key to Heaven was in the bloodlines, the bloodlines of Azazel, Araquiel and Amaros. Sam and Dean have the first two, I have the third. That should mean that only John and Rosie could possibly be the key, and Sam and his children should be safe – but they're not. Chasina said that they were the most suitable, but the others were still acceptable – except that she didn't seem to know about the key."

"We should go inside for this discussion," the angel said, taking her arm as he walked with her up the stairs. "The Watchers told you of the key?"

"They mentioned it – reluctantly," she said, looking up at him. "What do you know of it?"

"Not much. The seraphim were not privy to what the Watchers were told about this." Cas opened the French door to the living room and followed her inside. "Michael knows, I think."

"Why is there so much mystery in Heaven over this?" She stopped and looked at him. "Why do the seraphim hate the Watchers and the nephilim so much?"

The angel's gaze cut to the side. "I don't know, exactly."

"But you have a theory," Ellie speculated, looking at the discomfort on his face. "Why, Cas?"

He didn't answer, and Ellie caught her lip between her teeth as she put together the things that the angels had said, that the nephilim had mentioned, that the Watchers had told her.

"God really did give His blessing, didn't he?" she asked the angel wonderingly. "They were telling the truth about that. And the angels were – what? Jealous? Envious?"

"Not all were chosen for the guiding of humankind," Castiel admitted reluctantly. "Those who were, they were powerful in some way, different from the rest of us. Amaros," he said, looking at her, "is older than Michael. He was the archangel who led the Host of Heaven before he asked to Fall."

Ellie nodded slowly. "That explains Michael's antipathy, but what about the rest?"

"It's been a long time since the Fallen left Heaven, Ellie. They Fell with their Grace, with their powers and their knowledge and God's blessing," he said, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not sure I convey to you what that means."

The angel thought of Anna, looking for that chance to do something more than she was allowed to, in the halls of Heaven.

"It was a privilege," he said finally.

"But the Flood, the wiping out of the Watchers …" She looked at him, a small crease between her brows. "Wasn't that God's punishment?"

He nodded. "In part. Not for the Watchers, or their children, though. They were warned of it, to allow them to escape."

"Alright," she said, closing her eyes, trying to fit this into the histories that the Watchers had shared, with the garbled account that Enoch had written. "Baraquiel and Sariel seem to believe that they hold something over Michael and Iophiel, something that will stay the arch's hand in a confrontation – is that God's blessing?"

"It would be," Castiel allowed warily. "Nothing else would stop Michael."

"Does Heaven keep the records of the Watcher's descendants?"

"I don't know." He gestured helplessly. "That was Metatron's job, he was the Scribe of Heaven but he left, over two thousand years ago."

"And no one took up his duties?" Ellie asked.

"No. There's Joshua …" The angel's eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "He said once … it might not mean what I think."

"What?"

"He said that everything was written in the Garden," Cas looked at her. "Amaros would know his line or lines, I think."

"Can you contact him?"

"Possibly," he said, and she saw his discomfort in the way his eyes slid away from hers.

"It's important," she pressed him. He nodded and she let it go at that. If Trish had the Watcher's bloodline, somewhere far back in her family tree, it might explain why Marc and Laura and Adrienne were also being sought. Or it might not, if the firstborn didn't even know of the key. One of each family would do. Why then were they hunting Sam and Dean as well? And why not her?

The angel tilted his head slightly, eyes half-closing. "I have to go, Ellie. Has Dean found the firstborn yet?"

She looked at him in surprise. "I thought you'd be keeping track of him?"

"I can't. Not at the moment."

"Callie has left enough of a trail that he's closing in on them," she said, looking at her watch. "They might be able to catch them by morning."

"When he does, pray. I can hear you at least."

She nodded as the air moved in the room, the curtains lifting and the flutter of wings echoed softly.

* * *

_**Conway, New Hampshire**_

The black truck bounced over the potholes in the gravelled drive, stiff suspension tossing them around as Laney pulled into the lot and stopped in front of the office. Soleil was out and through the sliding glass door as the brake went on, and back in a moment, a set of keys in her hand.

"One-nineteen," she said shortly. "Far end of the lot."

"Car's not here," Laney muttered unnecessarily. Dean nodded, frustration rising through him. The nephilim must have left before light.

Beside them, Dwight pulled in, and on other side of Laney's truck, Carl drew up, Twist parking beyond him.

"Hearing some chatter on the CB, Dean," Dwight said without preamble as he got out.

"What?" Dean looked at him, nodding to Soleil to check the room.

"White station wagon, tearing up toward the 95." Dwight pulled a map from the cab and spread it over the hood of his truck. "Heading north, got into Maine an hour ago."

"An hour?" Dean looked at the map. "Where are they now?"

"Last report was just south of Bridgton, that was before we pulled in," Katherine said, leaning across to the door.

"How'd they get wind of us?" Carl had walked around the back of the black truck and leaned up against it.

Dean shook his head tiredly. "They can probably see me."

"Even through the wardings?" Dwight looked at him doubtfully.

"Laney was on backup, the Watchers didn't do her truck," he said, gesturing to it. "Not like yours, or Carl's." Or what Michael had done to the Impala, he thought in frustration, wishing for the black car with an intensity that bordered on need.

"Charlie, we'll swap, I'll ride with Carl from here." He looked at the girl standing next to Carl.

She nodded, turning around as Soleil and Laney came out of the room. Dean looked at Laney.

"Bangor," she said, pulling out her phone and looking around. "Twist? You got the number for Rudy?"

The silver-haired hunter blinked at her. "Shit, Laney, haven't seen Rudy for years. He was working across the border then."

She shook her head. "I saw him in September, last year. He helped out with a fucking great nest, told me he was based in Maine now – Jer, did you get his number?"

Jeremy shrugged. "I left straight after that nest, Laney."

She looked at Dean. "We could use someone to intercept them."

"Try Frank," Dean said shortly, following Carl back to his truck. "If you've got an old number, he can probably track him to a new one."

He reached out and caught Charlie's arm as she passed him. In a low voice, he said, "Watch Soleil. She doesn't move without my say-so, okay?"

Charlie looked up at him, surprise widening her eyes. She nodded. "Yeah, sure."

He let her go and climbed into the red pickup as Carl started the engine, running his gaze over the dash. The CB was tucked under the stereo in the dash. Flicking it on, he turned to the truck channel as they reversed out of the lot.

"How's Soleil holding up?" Carl asked him as he headed for the highway.

Dean shrugged. "What you'd expect."

"At least we know for sure that Callie's still alive," Carl said, glancing at him and back to the road.

"Yeah," Dean said. There was that. He started as his phone trilled in his pocket, pulling it out.

"Hey."

"_Hey, you get to Conway?_" Ellie asked, and he could hear the rustle of paper in the background.

"Just leaving. They're heading for Bangor," he answered, closing his eyes. "Laney mentioned someone called Rudy?"

"_Rudy Hanlon?_" He heard surprise bloom through her voice. "_I thought he was dead_."

"Apparently not," he said dryly. "She said he was based in Maine."

"_Ah, that explains why Frank rabbited after getting a call. Yeah, uh, Rudy's a hunter, used to work right up north and over the Canadian border_."

"Laney said he helped them out with a vamp's nest." Dean rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. He'd gotten about three hours sleep on the run to New Hampshire. "He any good?"

"_Yeah, he's good_," she said. He straightened a little, hearing an undercurrent in her voice.

"You know him?"

"_I used to_."

Dean was silent for a moment. Another piece, he thought vaguely, wondering how much this one was going to hurt. "You gonna tell me?"

She sighed on the other end of the phone. "_Nothing world-shaking, Dean. Laney and Twist and I spent a bit of time working with him in '06. Hunting in Quebec_."

"And?"

"_And that's it_," she said. "_He was young, reckless, but he had a good instinct. His mother was psychic, but he never seemed to get her abilities. He grew up more or less on the edges of hunting_."

Dean stared out through the windshield, pushing back all the other questions he had. "Can I trust him, if Laney can get a hold of him?"

"_For what?_"

"To intercept the firstborn," he said.

"_Yes_." The quick and certain response surprised him.

"You sound sure for someone you haven't seen in a while," he said doubtfully.

He heard her snort. "_Well, he might've mellowed, but when I knew him he hated angels. Every kind, the Watchers and the nephilim included_."

"Seems extreme," Dean said slowly. "How'd he even know about them?"

"_I don't know, he wouldn't tell me that_."

"Huh."

"_Wait a second –,_" she said, and he heard her call out in the background to Frank, could just make out the older man's rumbling response. "_Frank got a number, he'll pass it on to Laney_."

"Okay." He drew in a deep breath. "Ellie –"

"–_Breaker One-seven, hey, anybody out there seen a white and beige Ford station wagon, going up to Bangor like a bat out of Hell?_" Dwight's voice erupted from the CB. There were a number of crackles then a woman's voice sounded in the speakers.

"_Ten-four, I got a jet pilot next to me, matches that description, sugar, come back_."

"_Ma'am you got any friends and neighbours who can slow that wagon down? That pilot's my daughter an' it ain't for fun. She's got some bad company, lookin' to get across the border, over_." Dwight said blandly.

Carl looked across at Dean and grinned. Dean's mouth lifted slightly.

"You getting this, Ellie?"

He could almost see her face scrunch up down the line. "_Yeah, I'm gettin' it, good neighbour_."

"_Don't 'ma'am' me, sugar. Rook, kick it in, you got that, come back?_"

"_Ten-four, Sweetpea, we're clean and green up here, you Juliet that flygirl to yardstick 32 an' we'll cozy up_," the male voice on the radio said in a slow drawl. "_Blank door, how 'bout cha?_"

"_Ten-four, Rook. Snowball here, call our twenty yardstick ten, hammer's down_," Dwight said. "_Can you box it in 'fore we reach the big road? Come back_."

"_Affirmative, Snowball, gift-wrapping our specialty. How slow do we go, come back_."

"_Nothin' fancy. Double-nickel'll be fine, come back_."

"_Ten-four, back out_."

Dean leaned back, closing his eyes. "Floor it, Carl."

Carl nodded and the truck accelerated, Dwight, Jeremy and Laney speeding up behind him.

"_Dean?_" Ellie said softly in his ear.

"Yeah, we should be able to get them before they hit the 95," he said quietly.

"_Even if you don't, you should be able to keep eyes on them, wherever they're going from here_," Ellie commented.

"Yeah." He opened his eyes and looked through the windshield. "Sam said you were looking for something, when I called before?"

"_The Watchers aren't giving us the whole story_," she said slowly, and he frowned at the doubt in her voice. "_There's something about the bloodlines, and what they call the key. I'm trying to find out more about it_."

"Did you call Cas?"

"_Yeah. He doesn't know. He's looking into it_," she exhaled and the sigh was soft in his ear. "_Whatever it is, they don't want to talk about it, and that's a worry_."

Dean thought about that. "Yeah, it is. It's all quiet there, right?"

"_Yep_," she said firmly. "_We're good here. Dean, Frank just came back in, I gotta go_."

"Okay, I'll call you later."

"_Don't get caught in the cross-fire_." She hung up and he looked down at the phone, ending the call and putting it back into his jacket.

"Ellie okay?" Carl asked, shooting him a sideways look.

"Yeah, all okay at home," Dean said, nodding. He looked at the speedometer, sitting at seventy. "C'mon Carl, you can do better than that."

Carl grinned sheepishly and pushed his foot down harder, and the truck surged away.

* * *

Dean's phone rang a few minutes later.

"Yeah?"

"_Channel Twenty-two_," Laney said, and hung up. He put the cell back in his pocket and reached over to change the channel to twenty-two.

"_-veryone on?_" Laney's voice came through the speakers loud and clear. Dean picked up the mike.

"Yeah, we got you," he said.

"_Good, we'll use this instead of the phones till we get them_," she said shortly. "_Frank called, and I got hold of Rudy. He and his crew are waiting to see how the truck manoeuvre goes, he's in Belgrade right now, heading south_."

Dean swallowed the desire to ask Laney about the hunter. "All right, how many extra?"

"_Including Rudy, there're seven in his crew_."

"That ought to do it," Dean said dryly.

"_That's what we thought last time_," Laney countered irritably. "_Let's not jinx this by counting chickens_."

He smiled. "Affirmative."

* * *

"_Ah, Rook, we got a breakaway comin' up your back door, come back_."

Dean looked at the road ahead, seeing only the back-end of the two rigs in front of them. The road curved to the left and he saw a flash of white accelerate out of the northbound lane, tyres squealing as the driver shot past the semi in front of it, skating and weaving as they regained the north lane just as another truck came down the southbound.

"What the fuck –" He snatched up the mike on the radio.

"Dwight, what's she doing?"

"_Cueball, got her in sight_," Rook's usual drawl was overlaid by worry. "_Kid's gonna be road pizza if she don't stop tryin' to get past us_."

"_Rook, this is Snowball, how far to the big road?_"

"_Two miles, Snowball, I don't know that we can hold her if she decides to go_."

"_Just try_."

Carl eased out, tyres on the centre line as he saw the station wagon pull out again. Ahead of it, the rig swerved slightly to the centre as well, and the station wagon drew back in.

"_Anyone get an eyeball on the pilot in that wagon, come back?_" Sweetpea asked.

"_Got a flash as she went by_," Cueball said. "_Looked like someone was up behind her, come back_."

Carl glanced at Dean. He pulled out his phone.

"Laney, call Rudy, now. She gets onto the interstate we want to drive her off. Can we get them in Lewiston?"

"_I'll check_," Laney said shortly and he dialled Dwight's number.

"Dwight, ask the truckers if they can keep her boxed on the 95 and send her off to Lewiston."

"_Right._"

"_Rook, this is Snowball, come back_," Dwight's voice crackled over the radio a moment later.

"_Gotcha Snowball_."

"_Can you keep her contained on the big road, and send her west at the Lewiston exit?_"

"_Should be able to_," Rook said uncertainly. "_Can you get around us before then?_"

"_We'll take the low road, come back_," Dwight confirmed gruffly. "_Keep on her till the second exit, come back?_"

"_Ten-four, Snowball, back out._"

Dean pulled a map from the glove box and straightened it out. They could do it, get past them from the airport road. He called Laney again.

"Laney, he on his way?"

"_Yeah, they'll come into Lewiston from the 11, stop them from getting past if need be, I told them to switch to radio once they're close_."

"All right."

* * *

_**Lewiston, Maine**_

They were on the I-95 for less than a minute, and Carl took the exit down to the airport, glad that the traffic was light as he barrelled along the two-lane blacktop, Dwight right behind him. Twist and Laney had stayed behind the trucks, confirming that the five big rigs had boxed in the station wagon the second they'd gotten onto the interstate, one each side, and behind and in front. Callie, even under duress, wouldn't be able to get out of the cage until the second exit.

Dean's fingers were itching for the wheel, his feet tapping unconsciously against the firewall as he shifted his gaze between the road ahead and the dash, seconds ticking loudly in his mind. They only a few miles to get ahead of Callie, around Lewiston and back onto the highway leading slightly west of north.

Lewiston was probably a bad choice, he thought, glancing down at the map beside him. Damned town had a dozen roads running out of it, and he didn't think they could block them all. The state roads, four and eleven, would be the primary blocks, and he'd have to hope that the firstborn would try and take one of them.

"_Snowball, this is the Rook, approaching Washington exit, you ready to catch the bird, come back?_" The CB crackled as they edged out of its range.

"_Ten-four, Rook, we'll catch her, open the cage when you're ready, come back_," Dwight's voice was loud and clear.

"_Ten-four, cage opening now, back out_."

Dean looked at the map and called Laney. "Where's Hanlon and his team?"

"_Just entering Lewiston from SR 11_," she said. "_We'll push her hard down Washington, where do you want to take them?_"

"Make sure she gets onto SR 4," he said. "There's a straight stretch before the lake, we can push her off the road there."

"_Okay, I'll let him know_." She hung up the phone and he closed his, setting it down on the seat.

Carl was watching the intersections and he nodded as they came up to the turn off. "That's her, Dean."

Dean looked through the window at the white and beige station wagon he could see in flashes between the buildings. They were converging, the two roads getting closer together. "You're gonna have to sneak out in front of her, Carl."

Carl nodded, watching the traffic around him and gunned through the amber light, two cars ahead of the wagon as their lights turned green. Truck stood out like a hooker in a convent, Dean thought distractedly, looking back at the cars behind them, and Callie would recognise it. He hoped her acting skills were sufficient to keep the nephilim from realising how close they were.

Dwight had missed the lights on the turn, and he watched the older man slip out behind the wagon against the lights, distantly hearing the indignant beeps from the other cars waiting at the intersection.

As they drove through the city's outskirts, the pale blue pickup inched its way closer to the wagon, and in the side mirror, Dean saw Laney's black truck getting closer as well, the nondescript white pickup that Twist drove, behind her.

All present and accounted for, he thought. All the vehicles kept to the speed limit, flowing with the traffic heading north. Dwight moved up a little more, settling in beside them and ahead of the wagon as Laney moved up behind it and Twist maintained his position a little further back. If they could just get out onto the stretch beyond the town, where the two-lane ran straight as it headed to the lake, they would be able to push her off.

"Uh, Dean, something up ahead," Carl's voice dragged his attention back to the road in front of them. The road was a sea of red brake lights, and beyond, he could see the blue and red flashing lights of emergency vehicles and the cops.

"Crap, what now?" He looked at the scanner mounted under the radio and flicked it on.

"-iple vehicle crash, off ramp south from Memorial Bridge, all units. All units."

"Fender bender on the off ramp," Dean muttered, leaning out the window and looking along the road. "Diversion is into the southbound lanes."

Carl nodded and shifted down as the traffic crawled past the accident, the drivers ahead braking and causing a stop-start movement through the flow as they rubbernecked the overturned vehicles and ambulance personnel who swarmed over them.

Behind them, there was a sudden squeal of rubber and Dean's head snapped around as the station wagon peeled to the left, narrowly missing an oncoming car and accelerated onto a side-street.

"Christ, she's rabbiting," Dean snarled, leaning past Carl to see the direction, as he grabbed his phone. "Laney, can you get down there after her?"

"I can try." The phone cut off and he twisted around in the seat, watching her ease the truck out and past the line, dodging through a small break in the traffic on the other side of the road.

"That road dead-ends before the highway," he said, not sure of who he was speaking to. They were trapped here, stuck with cars on every side, until they got clear of the accident. The on ramp to their left was blocked completely by police cars, nose to nose.

From their position, he could see the end of it, trees and a dirt bank dividing the cul-de-sac from the four lane road above it. He caught movement in his peripheral and watched a couple of cars increasing their speed on the highway to the left. Hanlon, he wondered? He hoped so.

Laney's black truck accelerated as she followed the wagon along the quiet dead-end street and he saw her brake lights flash as he watched the wagon hit the high kerb at the end of the street, bouncing over it, wheels spinning as they fought for traction on the grass verge. The wagon climbed up the dirt bank, listing heavily as the tyres spat out dirt behind them, then finally gained the concrete shoulder and pulled onto the highway with another squeal. Behind it, Laney pointed the truck directly up the bank and it hauled its way up, gouging deep holes as it went.

"Crap, crap, crap." Dean stared at the white wagon, now racing up the four lane road, Laney a dozen car-lengths behind it and well and truly made, a old Mercury Cougar and another pickup accelerating behind her. He looked at the map. Short of turning around and re-negotiating the accident site, they had no way to get onto that road, which ran on the western side of the lake.

"What do you want to do?" Carl looked at him, glancing down at the map and back to his face.

Dean shook his head, lips compressed as he thought. "We'll keep going, try and cut them off at the head of the lake. SR 4 to Lake Shore Drive. Follow the lake." He looked around. "The second we're out of this mess, you go hard."

Carl nodded.

* * *

_**Intersection, N Auburn Road and Lake Shore Drive, Maine**_

The red truck lifted onto two wheels as Carl rocketed out of the t-junction, g's pulling at them hard, the painfully harsh roar of a truck's airhorn filling their ears as the pickup skidded across the two lanes in front of the rig. Carl straightened up in the northbound lane and accelerated toward the black truck ahead of him.

Dean glanced back to see Dwight make the right at a more moderate pace, through a gap between the truck and the following cars. On the bend ahead, he saw the wagon, a silver-grey Mercury Cougar behind it, and the black truck behind that.

He switched channels to twenty-two, and picked up the mike. "Everyone on?"

"_Reading you, Dean_," Laney's voice came through.

"_Yeah, we're here_," a male voice sounded from the speaker, and he guessed it must be Hanlon.

"_Gotcha, Dean_."

"We've got about six miles of straight road coming up," Dean said quietly, looking at the map. "That you in the Cougar, Hanlon?"

"_Affirmative_."

"As soon as you've got a clear stretch in the southbound, you can move up," Dean looked ahead. "Laney, you too. We'll come up behind and block any thoughts of going backwards."

The drivers' assent came through and they watched the oncoming traffic, waiting for the traffic coming south to thin out.

The road hooked a little to the left and for a moment, they lost sight of the wagon. Almost immediately they heard the sound of horns and Carl accelerated behind Laney, coming around the corner to see a truck skewed across the road, several cars pointing this way and that behind it, Hanlon's Cougar in the middle.

"What the hell happened?" Dean bit out, leaning on the dash.

Carl shook his head, following Laney's black truck around the pile up, and pulling over onto a clear stretch of pine-needle-covered ground where the trees stood back a little.

Dean jumped out of the pickup and stalked across the road, waving his arms at the white-faced drivers and looking authorative enough to get them back into their cars and start pulling around slowly. Hanlon backed the Cougar off the road on the left, revealing a narrow dirt road leading into the forest.

Dwight had pulled up in the northbound lane, holding the traffic back as the cars slowly made their way around the truck, and headed south again. The truck driver was checking his load, and he got back into the cab and started the engine, easing the truck around and heading slowly south. None of the vehicles had been going particularly fast, and none, fortunately, had any injuries or even major damage to their cars.

_Didn't matter_, Dean thought, walking to the Cougar. Someone would get on their phone and call the cops about the reckless driver of the white wagon, and they'd be here soon enough.

He looked at the driver of the Cougar. Hanlon had dark reddish hair, cut short, but the curl pronounced, olive-tinted fair skin, light eyes, a hint of gold under the grey of the irises. He opened the door and got out, extending a hand.

Dean took it. The other man was about the same height, a little lighter, he thought. There was a lot of strength in the wiry grip.

"Rudy Hanlon," he said, his voice a clear tenor, a very slight clipped quality to the way he spoke, speaking of a lifetime here in the far northeast.

"Dean Winchester," Dean released his hand and looked around. "What happened?"

Rudy cocked a brow. "She came out of the bend, accelerating, and then cut in front of the truck," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't even see that goddamned forest road, but she was up it before I knew what was happening. We turned and caused the mess, just automatic."

Dean nodded. "You know this area? Got maps?"

Rudy nodded. "The road'll take them up to Livermore. They might get back on the 4, going that way. I have no idea where they'd go from there."

"All right, you and me, we'll follow them along here. Dwight and Laney stay on the 4 and try and get ahead again." Dean turned around, waving to Carl.

The red pickup started. Dean walked back across the road to Laney's truck, looking at Dwight who'd pulled in behind her.

"You and Dwight, stay on the 4, as fast as you can to get up to Livermore. We'll follow them on the forest road."

Laney nodded, looking over her shoulder as Dwight walked up to them.

He got in as Carl pulled up beside him, his thoughts chaotic. Where the hell were they going? Bangor was practically in the opposite direction and they must've known that the pursuit was too close now, way too close to afford Maluch a hospital stop or even a rest from his injuries.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The room was shadowed, a stray beam of light slipping past the edges of the curtains to light the Watcher's hair to claret, outline the edges of the temple and high cheekbone as he sat motionless in front of the bowl.

He didn't look up as Ellie entered, but she saw him take a deeper breath.

"They haven't left the car," he said quietly.

She sat down in the chair opposite, crossing her arms on the smooth, polished surface of the table.

"What is the key, Baraquiel?"

"The key is safe, Ellie. It cannot be made, not now and not by the firstborn, they don't even really know of it."

"We've thought that before," she said softly, looking down at the bowl. "And been wrong before."

"This is different," he lifted his eyes to her.

The corner of her mouth lifted in a derisory smile. "It's never different, Baraquiel. And if it's so safe, then why keep it from us? Why not tell us about it?"

"Knowledge is power, Ellie, you, of all people, know that," the Watcher said, looking back at the surface of the liquid in the bowl. "When too many know, secrets get out."

"Why wasn't I targeted by the firstborn?"

"I don't know," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You are the only descendant of Amaros that we know of."

Ellie frowned. "Doesn't Trish's family hold that bloodline as well?"

"No." He looked up at her. "Her line is from Penemue."

She felt a flash of regret, that the Watcher had died, that she hadn't found that out before he had.

"Then why do they want Sam's children?"

"They must replace the missing with the strongest of the descendants. Sam is the most ideal, the one with the most of Azazel's particular code in him, strengthened by the blood he was given as an infant. You are the strongest of the line of Amaros. We've seen that, but they haven't sought you, have looked for Dean and for your children instead." Baraquiel spread his hands out, as his dark blue eyes met hers. "I don't know why that is. Perhaps John or Rosie hold even more of the Watcher's code than you do – that is possible, both have the abilities in great strength, but I do not understand why they've sought Dean. He is most compatible to Araquiel and Reuma is Araquiel's daughter."

A thought occurred to her and she looked down. "Maybe they're operating on a lack of solid information as well? Maybe they think that Dean is from Amaros' line?"

It would explain why they'd been unconcerned at the idea of her death, when they'd been pursued. She lifted her gaze to him.

The Watcher nodded slowly. "Perhaps they do."

His attention sharpened suddenly on the bowl. "They've left the car. Only three and they are supporting one between them."

"Maluch," Ellie said softly and Baraquiel nodded. "You can't see Callie?"

"She must be in the car still," the Watcher frowned at the images that appeared and disappeared on the surface. "They're crossing a broad, flat area … it looks concreted …"

Ellie felt her heart skip a beat. "Can you see planes? On the ground? In the air?"

"Yes, it is an airport. A small one." He looked up at her. "They're going to fly out?"

"It's what I'd do," Ellie said sourly, pulling out her phone and hitting the speed dial. "They won't have time to ward the plane – how big are the planes that are there, Baraquiel?"

"All small, no jets."

"Dean?"

* * *

_**SR 108 S, Maine**_

"Christ, which way?" Dean looked past the Cougar in front of them, up and down the two lane road.

"_Breaker Two-two, breaker two-two_," Laney's voice burst from the speakers and he reached forward to turn the volume down and pick up the mike.

"Laney, what's happening?"

"_Callie just shot across in front of us, on the 108, heading east again_," her voice was loud and filled with disbelief. "_We're following, but she's got a good lead on us_."

"Right." He watched Rudy pull out to the right, gravel flying out from the tyres as he accelerated hard, bracing himself against the door as Carl followed. "Are they trying to lose you?"

"_I don't think they even saw us_," she said.

He picked up the map and looked at the road ahead. "Left onto the 4 then straight where it turns north. The 108 keeps going east," he murmured to Carl.

"Alright. You get that, Rudy?"

"_Ten-four_."

"Keep going. Soleil, how big is the tank in that wagon?" he asked.

"_Dean, we swapped it out for a thirty gallon_," Soleil said, the wince evident in her voice.

Dean sighed. Not going to run out of gas anytime soon, then. "Ten-four. Back out."

* * *

_**SR 219, Maine**_

"_Dean, we've lost her again_."

He looked at the road ahead, the truck slowing down. The two-lane was empty and Dean gestured to Carl to pull up behind them.

He was getting out of the pickup when his phone rang, and he grabbed from it from the seat.

"_Dean?_"

"Yeah, what's wrong?" He pressed the phone tight against his ear, leaning back into the truck.

"_The firstborn, Baraquiel can see them. They're at an airport, a little one, maybe a county or club somewhere_," Ellie said, her voice tight. "_Callie's not with them_."

Dean closed his eyes and swore inwardly. His head snapped up and he looked around as he heard the sound of car doors clunking. Ahead of Carl's pickup, Laney walked toward him, behind her he saw Rudy.

"Airport? Near here? Small?"

Rudy stopped dead and nodded. "Bowman Field."

"That's where they are, get going!" He pulled himself back into the truck and Carl started the engine. "Bowman Field. Are they trying to fly out?"

He heard the tapping of keys. "_If they are, one of them better know how to fly_," she said. "_It's just a club airport, fifteen planes kept there. Tower's not operational today_."

"Alright, we'll assume that at least one knows how to prep and fly," he said, his voice filled with frustration. "Where? Where they can go?"

"_Anywhere within the range of the plane_." Ellie tapped on the keyboard. "_The club doesn't have the details on the member's planes. Dean, call the cops, get them involved. It'll be grand theft, even a small plane costs a fortune_."

"Where's Callie?" He braced himself against the roof as Carl drove the railway tracks without slowing.

"_Baraquiel can't see her, so she's possibly still in the car_."

But the car wasn't moving, he thought, or Callie would've used the CB to call for help. He felt his stomach sinking. "Alright. Okay."

"_I'll call you when we've got some kind of a destination – the Watchers can see them now_."

"Okay," he said and closed the phone. He looked at Carl. "Step on it."

* * *

The Cougar led them along 219 and turned left onto SR 106 after they'd cross the railway line. It was only another four miles to the airfield. The car and pickups drove through the shattered remains of the high chainlink gates, and Dean saw the station wagon, abandoned on the tarmac.

The four vehicles drove straight to it, and Dean got out, seeing Soleil dive in through the passenger side as he hit the pavement. He looked at Rudy questioningly, seeing the younger man's attention on the sky. Rudy must have felt that look because he glanced at Dean and pointed to a faint black dot, circling high above the field and then straightening out, headed west.

"That'll be your lot," Rudy said bluntly. Dean's eyes narrowed as he watched the plane.

"Dwight –" He looked around for him, and Dwight lifted a hand, already on the phone.

Not wanting to see what was inside the car, Dean walked to it, opening the rear passenger door and looking down at the young woman who lay, half-leaning against the driver's side door, blood trickling the side of her head. He looked at her arm, bent crookedly over her leg. At the rapidly swelling and mottling on the side of her face. The blood that was being aspirated with every painful exhale that came through her lips.

_Christ._

"They beat her," Soleil said softly, lifting her gaze to him. "Beat her and left her for us to try and waste our time further. She has to go to a hospital, Dean. I think there is at least some damage to her lungs."

He nodded. "Laney, bring your truck up close. Soleil, you take her to a hospital and stay with her until she's okay. Dwight and Kath and Oran can take you home, as soon as she can travel. Charlie, you're coming with me and Carl."

He turned around as Dwight walked up to car, backing out and facing the older hunter.

"Plane missing is a Beechcraft King Air 200," Dwight said tersely. "Belongs to the owner of the field. Has a range of around a thousand miles and was serviced and fuelled today for a trip tomorrow. Owner's called the cops but without a heading, they're going to be pretty much useless."

"Rudy saw a small plane. Looked to be heading west," Dean said, gesturing vaguely.

"FAA can pick it up if it goes near a larger regional airport, but if they stay off the usual flight routes, they might not find it." The hunter rubbed a hand along his jaw, looking at Dean thoughtfully. "They only need to get a few hundred miles from us, land in some hick airport and ward the friggin' thing to get completely vanished again, you know."

"Yeah, I know. But any airport is gonna report an airplane landing there, aren't they?"

"Mebbe they will, mebbe they won't. They don't need much in the way of facilities to land that thing, you know."

Rudy stood beside Dwight. "Do you think they're not heading for Bangor now?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know why the hell they were going there in the first place," he said irritably. "I have no clue where they might be heading."

_Other than the final destination_, he thought bleakly. "The leader – Maluch – he's injured and he's been running so far. But they're missing four of their gang, and they need them and they need my family to achieve what they want."

"Where are your family?" Rudy looked at him. Dean glanced involuntarily in the direction the plane had gone.

"Oregon," he said, as another thought hit him. "They can't – they can't fly that thing there, can they?"

Rudy shook his head. "That would depend on who's piloting that plane. The Rockies are in the way and demand a skilled pilot. And they'll need to refuel, a couple of times at least, on the way."

Dean licked his lips, thinking about the distances. "Dwight, Soleil needs to stay with Callie. You and Kath stay with her, then take them home as soon as she can travel."

Dwight's eyes narrowed. "You taking us out of this fight?"

"This isn't a fight, not yet, it's just a game of tag, and we're not winning," he said caustically. "I want to make sure that everyone who's still alive, stays that way, for as long as possible."

He looked at Rudy. "If they're heading west, if they're –" He stopped, dragging in a deep breath. "How do we catch up? It'll take us three days, constant shifts, to get back. How long will it take them?"

"In that plane? A day, maybe a day and a half if they don't fly at night, don't have an instrumentation rating."

Dean's phone rang shrilly and he yanked it out of his pocket.

"Ellie?"

"_They've landed. At a big airport, one that has domestic jets on the ground. I don't know which one_."

_Crap_. He looked at Rudy. "Which is the nearest domestic airline airport to here?"

"Portland would be. Or Manchester, in New Hampshire," the other man said.

"Portland or Manchester. If they get on a flight, they could go anywhere," he said to Ellie.

"_But we'll see them, no matter which way they go_," she responded calmly. "_Wait a minute –_"

"What flights can you get out of those?" Dean asked Rudy. "Where can they go?"

"Ah, United flies out of there, Southwest … US Airways," Rudy said, thinking about it. "You can get a flight to Jersey, or Washington DC, or to Chicago. Most of the other flights are local."

"_Dean? They're getting on a United flight now_." Ellie said. "_Baraquiel can't see the tail number_."

"How'd they get there so fucking fast?" Dean snapped, mostly to himself.

"Beechcraft cruises at around 300 miles per hour. It's only a hundred miles to Manchester by air," Rudy told him sourly.

"_Got it. United out of Manchester is Chicago-bound_," Ellie said in his ear.

"Chicago." He looked at Rudy. "Which means that another flight can put them anywhere in the country, or out of it, right?"

"_Right_," she said. "_There's a flight to Portland twenty five minutes after they land at O'Hare_."

He closed his eyes. "They're heading for you then."

"_It looks like it_," she said quietly.

"I've got a plane in Norridgewock, Dean," Rudy said, looking at him. "We go now, we'll be there in half an hour. My partner in it is a rated commercial pilot. We can be in Oregon by midday tomorrow."

Dean felt his stomach turn over and ignored it. "Ellie, get everyone to our place –"

"_I got it. If you're going to drink to get through this, take lots of water_," she said, and he almost smiled.

"I'll get through it," he promised quietly. "We gotta go."

"_See you soon_," she said and he heard a lot more behind the words.

"Be just a little while," he answered, his voice deep. He ended the call, looking at Rudy. "Let's get going."


	19. Chapter 19 Hunted

**Chapter 19 Hunted**

* * *

_**Norridgewock Airport, Maine**_

The Cougar's tyres squealed as Rudy swung the wheel, racing down the service road and onto the runway, heading for a large hangar to one side of the field. Dean glanced at his watch, impressed in spite of himself by the speed and driving skills of the man behind the wheel. The grey pickup right behind them was driven by Pierre Belanger, a French-Canadian hunter from Quebec. Carl and Charlie were several hundred yards behind the pickup, Carl goosing his truck as the route became clear.

Rudy pulled up next to the hangar, turning off the engine as a plane trundled out, propellers spinning lazily, the green and white paintwork advising that the plane belonged to Hanlon-Ryerson Enterprises. Dean frowned as the name rang a bell distantly in his memories. He got out as Rudy did, and the plane slowed to a halt, the engines running but the props gradually slowing down.

The door to the aircraft opened and a short flight of steps dropped down, and Dean looked up as a man walked down them, hurrying toward them across the concrete.

_No fucking way_, he thought, shock hitting him at the sight of the long face, with its thin-lipped mouth, watery blue eyes and short-cropped dark blonde hair. The last time he'd seen Walt, the hunter had been looking at him over the barrel of a gun, a balaclava pulled up to reveal that face.

Walt Ryerson stopped dead when he saw Dean, his eyes widening in a matching disbelief.

"Walt, long time no see," Dean said quietly. Rudy looked from one to the other.

"You two know each other?"

"In a manner of speaking," Dean admitted, his mouth lifting on one side in a small, humourless smile. "Where's Roy?"

Walt glanced at Rudy and shook his head. "Died, four years ago. Vampire got him."

"What a shame."

"Dean –"

"You two got history, can you save it for later?" Rudy interrupted, looking from his partner to Dean. "We're in a rush, remember?"

"Sure." He looked at the plane behind Walt and drew in a deep breath. _Statistically safer than swimming at a beach_, he told himself, walking toward it. _Safer than driving on the freeway in Boston or LA_.

He felt his stomach twist violently and ignored it, climbing the steps. Thing was half the size of a regular plane, but maybe it would stay up better. Less weight. _Safer than going to a hospital_. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and he stopped halfway up the steps, dragging in another deep breath, forcing his legs to keep moving. _Safer than being outside in a lightning storm_. There wasn't a choice. They had to make up the time they'd lost. Had to get to Oregon before the firstborn could find Ellie and Sam. _No choice. Get on board_.

Rudy looked at Walt as Pierre walked up to them. "What the hell?"

Walt turned and watched Winchester climbing onto the plane. "Some history, that's all. Nothing we can't work out."

"Better be," Rudy warned him. "All the pre-flight done?"

Walt nodded, turning as the red pickup pulled up next to the Cougar and Carl and Charlie got out. "More hunters?"

"Yeah, just them. We got a full load of fuel?"

"Yep, fuel stop scheduled in Sioux Falls, then we're good to Bend," Walt confirmed, turning to follow Rudy as Carl and Charlie came up to them. "Five hours to Sioux Falls. We've got a good forecast and nothing nasty predicted until we get over Wyoming."

"How long from SD?"

"That'll depend a bit on the weather," Walt said as he climbed the steps. "Say another eight hours to be on the safe side."

Rudy nodded and followed the hunter up the narrow aisle to the cockpit. Dean was sitting in an aisle seat, seat-belt already buckled, his fingers curled over the arms of the seat. Rudy stopped and looked at him.

"Flying not your thing?"

"No, I like the ground better," Dean muttered, looking up as Carl took the seat ahead of him and Charlie strapped in across the aisle. Pierre closed the steps and the door, taking the seat just next to it. Behind his seat, the rest of the plane had been converted to hold cargo, webbed netting lining the cabin sides.

"When did, uh, Walt become a pilot?" Dean asked, needing a distraction.

"He's been qualified for about fifteen years," Rudy said, glancing at the cockpit. "Just didn't want to get involved in the commercial side of things with the big airlines. He and I have overlapping interests around here, so we went halves in this baby."

"Well, that's … good … I guess," Dean said, looking out the window as the engine notes changed and the props began turning again. The scenery outside was moving. "Better let you get up there, do whatever it is you do."

Rudy smiled, and turned away, glancing back over his shoulder. "We'll try and keep it smooth."

"Right."

_Think about Walt_, he thought, _and what you'll do to him as soon as you touch the ground in Bend_.

_He made us and we just snuffed his brother, you idiot. You want to spend the rest of your life knowing Dean Winchester's on your ass, 'cause I don't. Shoot 'im._

The boom of the pump had been deafening but he hadn't heard it, the magnum twelve-gauge shot killing him before his senses could register anything. Walt had been right, he thought as the plane taxied to the runway and began to pick up speed, killing Sam but leaving him alive would've left him with nothing better to do than hunt the pair of them down and take them out in the most creative way he could've come up with.

The engines were roaring and the nose of the plane lifted a little, and Dean tightened his grip on the armrests, forcing air in and out of his lungs, his eyes closed tightly. There was a small bounce as they left the ground and the plane began to climb, gravity and acceleration and the angle of its ascent pressing him back in the seat. He found himself concentrating fiercely on the noise of the engines, listening for any change in their sustained drone, a flickered sideways glance through the starboard-side window showing the barely-visible blur of the propeller.

When they'd been returned unceremoniously to their bodies in the motel room, other things had overridden the need to look for Walt and Roy, and he'd actually forgotten about them for a while, dealing with the apocalypse, the devil, Death and everything else. In Cicero, he'd thought briefly about leaving Lisa and Ben, going out and finding the two hunters and killing them, but he'd let go of the idea, knowing it was driven more by his rising frustrations over the lack of success in finding a way to rescue Sam than a desire for revenge. His promise had held him, and the truth was that he couldn't raise the necessary anger to go after them anyway. He'd met the pair a few times over the years, first hunting with his father, then later on at the roadhouse with Sam. They weren't all that highly thought of by most of the hunters he'd known.

The plane levelled out and he opened his eyes slowly. It felt as steady as a rock, and he risked a quick look out the window, the world a long way below them, no details visible, just the humped relief of the landscape, like a three-dimensional map. He wasn't sure if he found that reassuring or not.

The intercom crackled briefly, then Rudy's voice came over the speakers.

"'Kay, folks, we're cruising at twenty-five thousand with a slight headwind. Got a good forecast and about five hours before we hit Sioux Falls to refuel."

_Five hours_, Dean thought, wiping his hands on his jeans. There was no question it wasn't a more efficient way to get around the country, if you could discount the whole falling-out-of-the-air thing.

The last two days of non-stop driving and chasing and disappointments crashed into him as he began to relax a little, and he didn't feel his eyelids drop, his head roll to the side to rest against the seat back or see the slight smiles that Carl and Charlie exchanged as they noticed.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Trish sat in the kitchen, feeding Adrienne and watching the preparations through the window as Garth and Tamsin and her husband checked over the boundaries and zones surrounding the house.

They were protected here, she thought, the nephilim couldn't see them, wouldn't be able to find them. Baraquiel and Chaz had warded all the cars, and she and Talya had driven down to the Bend the previous day to buy enough stores to keep them going for a month without needing to go out again.

She looked around as Ellie came in, brows rising slightly as she saw her sister-in-law's tension.

"What's wrong?"

Ellie went straight to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup.

"None of this makes any sense." She scowled into her cup for a moment, then carried it over to the table, sitting down opposite Trish. "The firstborn can't see us. They can't possibly take on Castiel with only three of them, and Maluch injured. Why are they coming here?"

"What did Baraquiel say?"

"He doesn't know, he can't figure it out either," Ellie said, putting her cup down and rubbing the inside of her wrist over her forehead. "They just changed flights. They'll land in Portland in about three hours. Rudy took off from Norridgewock a few minutes ago. It'll take them five hours to get to South Dakota and then between six and eight hours to get across the mountains and home."

She looked at Trish, her eyes dark. "They can see Dean, if they've had time to pull out their scrying bowl and take a look. They must know he's not that far behind them. And even if he wasn't on their trail, we're invisible to them, and ready for them anyway. Why come here?"

"Something we don't know?" Trish asked, wiping her daughter's face and setting the spoon back in the bowl. "Was there a flight from O'Hare that would have placed them closer to Winnemucca? Or Lovelock?"

Ellie shook her head. "No, not till tomorrow. But why not keep the plane they stole? They could've found a small airport, warded the damned thing so we had no hope of seeing them, taken their time to get wherever they wanted to go."

"Worried about the cops?"

Ellie gave her a dry look. "Didn't seem too worried about them when they were driving."

"True," Trish agreed. "Do we know them as well as we think we do? I mean, do their fathers?"

"Their limitations? Their abilities?" Ellie raised her head and looked at her. "I think so. But they've been around for a long time, so it's not to say that they haven't picked up a few tricks of their own that the Watchers don't know anything about."

"That's not a reassuring thought," Trish remarked unhappily, her arm closing a little more tightly around her daughter. "Is there any way we can find out what those might be?"

"I doubt it," Ellie said, looking out the window. The afternoon was getting on, the light turning reddish. She wasn't sure if Rudy would keep going, cross the mountains overnight or wait until morning. She wasn't sure if landing at Bend was such a great option, either. If the nephilim _were_ watching, they would see Dean there. It would give them a starting place to look that was too close for comfort. Was that the idea? Had they taken a plane to Portland to draw the hunters after them, keep an eye on Dean?

Or were they just running blind? Laney had called a couple of hours ago, when they'd gotten Callie to a hospital. She'd said that Maluch hadn't been healing, that it seemed that the burns were infected, possibly gangrenous. All seven together could heal him, she thought, their powers greater than those of angels. Was that why they were coming here, in view, traceable, to get to the others before he died?

It was a more appealing prospect than any of the alternatives. She finished her coffee and got up, walking slowly to the sink.

"What?" Trish asked, seeing the tension dissipating.

"It might be that they're just panicking, because Maluch is too badly injured," Ellie said, turning to look at her. "They might be running to the house to heal him."

"That would be better for us."

"Yeah." She looked out of the window above the sink. "Not so much for Cas, though."

* * *

_**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

Dean unbuckled the seat-belt gratefully as the plane slowed down and taxied off the runway to the open parking bays. He'd made it. The first leg, anyway, he corrected himself. As flights went, it hadn't been too bad. Steady and smooth and he'd slept through three hours of it. He wasn't sure if it was a first or not. The only two previous flights he'd made hadn't been good comparators.

He looked up as Rudy made his way down the narrow aisle from the cockpit.

"See you're still with us," the hunter said with a grin. "It'll take us about an hour to refuel and do the maintenance checks." He gestured to Pierre. "Pierre'll take you down the pilot's lounge, get some coffee, stretch your legs. The next bit'll be a different story."

Dean stood up, wondering what the hell that meant.

* * *

"You worked with Hanlon for long?" Dean leaned on the bar, gazing absently out the large windows at the plane, his fingers curled around the long neck. On the next seat, Pierre was nursing a beer.

"Ten years now," Pierre nodded. He wasn't tall, somewhere around five foot ten inches, but broad and hard. Black hair, warm, olive skin and dark eyes gave the square face a faintly dangerous look. "I was in the army, regular, and my unit was sent to stop what the police thought was a riot, in a little town near the border."

Dean looked at him curiously. "And?"

"And it wasn't a riot, it was a nightmare," Pierre smiled humourlessly at him. "One or two thousand people in the town, most of them had a pet dog. They turned out not to be pet dogs and they turned the families they were with overnight, starting attacking everyone else." He shrugged slightly. "We didn't know what we were shooting, dogs, or people, or monsters. Rudy and a few others came in, shot them with silver, saved our asses."

The Alpha skinwalker had been experimenting early, Dean mused silently. Ten years ago put it around '07.

"Must have been a surprise," he said.

"_Oui_, yes, it was. A good one." Pierre shook his head at the memory. "We were trapped in a school house with about fifty civilians, and they came in, gave us ammo, told us what we were fighting … had Rudy told me such things on the street, I would have laughed at him. But we didn't laugh."

Dean's mouth quirked. "Yeah, well, seeing's believing."

"Yeah."

"How many did he have with him then?"

"Ah … there were seven at that time. Rudy and Vincent, Guillaume and Carmen, who are still with us; and two women and a man who had joined up with him over the Canadian border – Laney Pike, Jeremy Mann and Ellie Morgan – you know them?"

Dean smiled. "Yeah, I know them. Ellie's name is Winchester now."

"_Merde._ Really?" Pierre's gaze flicked to the window and back again. "How long?"

"Uh, six years," Dean said after a second's mental calculation. He hadn't missed the man's surprise or the look out at the plane. He could think of a reason for it, although he didn't want to.

Pierre shook his head slowly, holding out his hand. "Well, congratulations. She was an extraordinary woman, when I knew her."

"She still is," Dean said lightly, releasing the other man's hand and picking up his beer again. "That was 2007?"

"No, '06," Pierre corrected him absently, glancing at his watch. "It was near the end of the year, after the first snows."

_Sometime around Gordon's reappearance_, he thought. And when Sam's abilities had been growing, scaring the hell out of him.

"Didn't hear about that," he said. "A whole town – I'm surprised we didn't pick up something about it."

"Rudy and Ellie were very thorough with the clean-up," Pierre said, finishing his beer. "We backed them up when it was all over, burned the bodies, said that there'd been an outbreak, that we'd quarantined the town. Ellie broke into the CDC database, somehow, don't ask me how, but she logged in communications between local doctors and them and they never questioned it."

Yeah, sounded like her, Dean thought with a slight inward smile. _Tell them what they want to hear and they'll leave you alone_. In 2006, she'd been twenty one.

"How old was Hanlon then?"

"Young," Pierre smiled. "To us, he seemed young and hard at the same time. Maybe twenty-three? Twenty-four? I don't know for sure."

It was young to be running a crew and handling jobs like that, Dean thought. He wondered about the hunter's upbringing, that he'd already been that experienced at that age.

"Time to go," Pierre interrupted his thoughts, gesturing to the window and getting to his feet. He turned and nodded at Carl and Charlie, sitting at a table a few feet away, and turned back to Dean.

"This next bit, it will be bumpy, not so smooth. There's always turbulence over the mountains. Just remember that both Walt and Rudy are good pilots," the Franco-American grinned callously at Dean.

"Right," Dean said, feeling his stomach begin to knot up as he stood up and followed Pierre out of the bar area. The sky was still filled with light but it was disappearing quickly, reddening to the west and already a deep mauve to the east. They'd be flying over the Rockies in the dark, at a high enough altitude to avoid most of what Rudy had called the 'bumpy bits'. Probably be less stressful if he didn't have to look down at the jagged peaks of the ranges as they flew over them, he thought.

"Good pilots," he repeated to himself nervously. "Right."

* * *

_**Sheraton Portland Hotel, Portland, Oregon**_

The suite was small but suitable to their needs, Kitra thought as she eased Maluch down on the bed. She kept her face impassive as she removed the already-sticky shirt and coat from him and the smell of rotting flesh rose and surrounded her. Nothing they'd tried was working on the deep burns, that seemed to be eating his body slowly, burning deeper like acid into him. Each dressing came away thick with pus and with more blackened pieces of his skin attached to them.

Maluch opened his eyes, and focussed slowly on her. The corneas were yellowed now, the irises bleaching out from the centres. He lifted a hand and caught her wrist and she looked down at him.

"Chuma?"

"He's preparing the circle, Maluch. We have everything we need."

"Want … want … to … cont-rol," the nephilim croaked, his chest heaving as he tried to get more breath.

Kitra nodded. "You will. Let me clean these, put new dressings on –"

Maluch's eyes rolled up tiredly. "Does … no … good … you … know …"

"You don't know how much it's slowing down the process, Maluch," she said tightly. "Let me do it."

His eyes dropped shut, his fingers falling from her wrist and she sighed, walking back to the main to get the pastes she'd made up, the washes and the dressings. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall at the end of the short hallway. Statuesquely tall, her clothes were filthy and dishevelled, her long, black hair dull and lank, braided tightly in a coronet around her head. Her normally smooth golden-toned skin seemed dull as well, and there were shadows around her eyes, and under her cheekbones, weight lost through the tension and fears of their attempts to escape the hunters over the last few days. She looked a mess, she thought distractedly.

Chuma knelt on the pale blue carpet, his face drawn with concentration as he poured the pale yellow powder in a perfect circle around himself. The nephilim was tall and broad-shouldered, his long, platinum-blonde hair pulled back from his face and clasped at the nape of his neck, the colour almost indistinguishable from the pale, smooth skin of his face. His brows and lashes were darker, and his eyes were a very dark brown, almost black, the features standing out vividly.

Kitra watched him for a moment, wondering if this would work. It had to, she thought fiercely. They couldn't lose Maluch.

* * *

_**Two hours later, approximately twenty-two thousand feet over Worland, Wyoming**_

They hit the first patch of rough air as the plane passed over the foothills ranging along the eastern flank of the Tetons. Dean gripped the arm-rests as the plane dropped suddenly, engines beginning to falter, then steadying, the plane rising again. The drone resumed and he wiped at his face, wondering how much more of that kind of thing he was going to be able to take. Not a huge amount, he thought, his misgivings about flying generally, and specifically right now, crowding into his head.

The intercom crackled. "Sorry about that, people, we're gonna climb a bit higher, see if we can't over this updraft. Buckle up tight."

Dean cinched the belt over his hips an inch tighter and hunched down in the seat, glowering at the back of the seat in front of him.

The plane's intercom squawked again, and he looked up at the speaker as he heard Walt's voice.

"What the fuck is that?"

Had Rudy meant them to hear this, Dean wondered? It wasn't exactly a reassuring announcement for the passengers.

"That's – that shouldn't be there," Rudy's voice sounded worried. _Turn off the fucking intercom_, Dean thought. _We don't need to hear this_.

"Whiskey Sierra Echo Four, this is Kilo Lima Charlie Zero Niner, come in."

There was another crackle on the intercom then they heard the airport's response. _"Kilo Lima Charlie Zero Niner, this is Whiskey Sierra Echo Four receiving you. What's the problem?"_

"Whiskey Sierra Echo Four, we are seeing a large, repeat, large storm over the Tetons north by west of your position, are you seeing that on your instrumentation, over."

"_Negative, Kilo Lima Charlie Zero Niner, we have no readings of a storm over that area at this time. You sure that's cumulus you're eyeballing, not just low cloud cover under the mountain peaks, over."_

"Negative, Whiskey Sierra Echo Four, we are cruising twenty-four thousand above the deck and those are thunderheads we're looking at. Request weather forecast revision, over."

"_Kilo Lima Charlie Zero Niner, I have no weather revisions to this morning's forecast. We are not seeing a cloud increase, over."_

Dean frowned as he listened to the airport. He leaned over in his seat and looked through the window, seeing the dark grey clouds over the mountains, shading through smoke-grey, dark cream and brilliant white as they towered above the plane's altitude. _Why the hell didn't the assholes just look out the window_, he wondered tetchily.

"Roger, Whiskey Sierra Echo Four, this is Kilo Lima Charlie Zero Niner over and out."

"What the hell was that all about?" Rudy said. "Ah … fuck."

The intercom crackled and fell silent, matched by the silence in the cabin.

A moment later the cockpit door opened and Rudy came out, stopping in front of Dean and looking from one to the other of the hunters.

"Sorry about that, guess you guys caught the conversation we just had with JAC. We're seeing a storm front, right over the mountains and they're not. Don't really know what that means, but if you want to miss out on the light show, we'll need to make the decision now, so that we can land at Jackson." He looked at Dean.

"Can you get above it?" Dean glanced out through the window again.

"Might be able to, at the moment all we've got is a visual and something undefined on the radar."

"Can we get through it?" Carl asked, shooting a sideways at Dean's face.

"It'll be a hell of a ride, if we do," Rudy answered, looking at Dean. "It's not fun going through a thunderstorm over mountains."

"I can live with no fun, Hanlon," Dean said tightly. "So long as the emphasis is on live."

Rudy grinned, nodding. "We'll let's see what we can see then."

He turned around and returned to the cockpit and Dean started humming, under his breath.

* * *

Lightning flashed in the clouds next to him and he saw one of the tendrils from the main bolt touch the edge of the wing, crawling over it and crackling into nothing. He turned away from the window and closed his eyes, hearing the shriek of the wind and the deep crashes of thunder over the struggling roar of the engines. The plane rose several feet and then dropped abruptly, leaving his stomach somewhere in the region of the back of his throat, his breath hissing in as his fingers tightened on the arm-rests.

_Fuck flying_, he thought furiously, as the plane levelled out for a moment then dropped again sharply. _Never again, not for any reason_.

The next bolt of lightning hit the main fuselage and the lights flickering crazily for several seconds then went out, plunging the cabin into a strobe-lit darkness. He heard the engine closest to him sputter and die and felt the plane lurching to one side, a cross-wind forcing it off its course and vibrating fiercely through the framework, through the soles of his boots.

"-eople, hang on!"

And the plane dipped forward, the nose pointing earthwards. Dean could see snow-covered peaks, far below, through the racing gaps in the cloud, fluorescing in the blue-white lightning strikes to either side of them, and the darker clefts where the wind had scoured the snow cover clean, leaving bare rock.

Over the cacophony of noise, the uneven and faltering engines, explosive crashes of thunder, the whistling of the winds along the hull and the random banging coming from somewhere inside the plane as baggage fell across the canted cabin, the hunters could hear Hanlon and Walt shouting to each other, desperately trying to pull the plane out of the dive, restart the engines, do something, anything to stop their headlong descent into the unforgiving mountains below.

Dean watched the landscape get closer and closer, feeling the plane twisting, rolling on its long axis, shuddering as a downdraught hit them. The strong wind accelerated as it lifted over the peaks and dropped, slamming into the side of the plane. He caught a flashing glimpse of the peak – next to him – his disbelieving eyes taking in the details of the folds and shadows in the rock face when the lightning illuminated it starkly, then it was gone, they were gone, dropping lower, still nose-heavy, the eddies and cross-currents of wind stronger and more chaotic below the tops of the ranges.

"-left rudder, hit the snow –" Rudy's voice screamed from the cockpit and the plane started to turn a little. The noise as the wingtip hit the protruding rock was enormous, metal shrieking, the wing ripped off and wind filling the cabin, howling as the plane dragged its belly over another protrusion of rock, and the high-pitched screech drilled into Dean's head.

The nose lifted for a moment, then dropped.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

Baraquiel ran into the kitchen, looking around the small group sitting at the table. "Ellie, the plane's crashed."

"What?" Sam's head snapped up.

"Where?" Ellie was out of her chair and beside the Watcher.

"They were crossing a mountain range, in Wyoming –"

"Tetons?" Sam interjected, looking at Ellie. She nodded, looking at the Watcher.

"There was a storm, came up very quickly. I couldn't see the details, just the plane dropping and then hitting the side of the mountain."

"Which side, Baraquiel?"

"Western, I think. I'm not certain. The storm is still there, I can't see anything further through it."

"Ellie, we need to call Cas," Sam stood up, walking to her quickly. "We need him to find them –" _Save them_, he thought, looking at her, knowing she would know what he was thinking without him having to say it out loud.

Ellie started to nod then stopped, the colour draining from her face as she looked up at Sam.

"God … Sam, what if this why they took the commercial flight? To get here, make that storm," she said slowly, turning to Baraquiel. "You said that they could, make spells, change things, even if they're not altogether?"

"Simple things, yes." The Watcher nodded uneasily. "Weather making is simple."

She looked up at Sam. "If we send Cas, the other four are unguarded. What if that's what Maluch is waiting for?"

The nephilim had landed in Portland and Chaz had reported that they'd stayed there, close by the airport, in some kind of hotel. There were a few to choose from, she thought, surrounding the airport. They didn't have the resources right now to send anyone down to look.

Turning away from Sam and Baraquiel, she sank down into the chair at the end of the table. Soleil, Dwight and Kath were still in Lewiston, staying with Callie. Laney and Jeremy were on their back to Michigan. Twist was driving back here. Jim and Ginny were down in Texas. Adam had gone with Frank to Los Angeles; the university had a number of ancient texts from Egypt that seemed to be related to the nephilim. Steve and Red were still here, and Garth, Tamsin, Idan, Oran, Sagi and Talya. She bit her lip as the pieces turned around in her mind, trying to make them fit together, fit into a plan that would work.

"Call Cas, Sam," she said, looking up at him. "If they're going there, then we'll get them when they turn up."

He nodded once and turned on his heel, heading for the garden.

"What are you going to do?" Baraquiel looked at her questioningly.

She pulled in a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly as she looked at all the disparate elements.

"Cas can take a few of us to the house, then find Dean and the others," she said, rubbing her fingertips over her forehead. "If this is a diversion, then they'll go there, and we'll be waiting for them."

Trish looked at her worriedly. "Who goes?"

"Steve and Red, Baraquiel, Sam and I'll go to Nevada," she answered, turning around. "We can make a holy oil trap and hold them there until Cas gets back."

"What about us?"

"You, Garth and Tamsin and the kids go into the panic room." Ellie looked at Baraquiel. "Sariel, Shamsiel and Chaz, Idan, Oran, Sagi and Talya will guard the house. Twist should be back sometime tomorrow, and he can help out with that."

Castiel entered the kitchen, followed by Sam. "I cannot get another to guard the firstborn in Nevada."

"No. That's alright," Ellie said, shaking her head. "We'll wait for the three there."

"I can't see Dean, Ellie. Or his companions."

Sam stepped past the angel. "We can probably narrow their location down to a mile or so," he said, looking at Ellie and lifting his phone. "Dean's had his GPS enabled for the last three weeks."

She nodded, looking at Castiel as Sam turned away and dialled into the phone carrier.

"You'll have to take us to Nevada, before you go."

The angel nodded slowly. "You are sure that the three have planned this?"

"No. Not sure," she said abruptly. "It's just the only thing that makes sense to me right now."

The angel glanced at Baraquiel. "There is very little that can hold the firstborn, Ellie. The trap will have to be airtight."

Ellie looked at the Watcher as well. "We'll lay down holy oil and watch for them. I don't know what else we can do."

"What else can hold them, Castiel?" Baraquiel looked curiously at the angel. It was the first he'd heard of anything other than holy oil being a sufficient barrier.

"I haven't seen it for myself, but it might be possible to use electricity as shielding against them," the angel said, frowning as he looked for the memories. "The forces they use, like all of us, is energy. Shielding can disrupt those forces, scatter them."

"Shielding … like … a Faraday cage?" Ellie stared at him, a small crease appearing between her brows.

"Yes, similar to that. A neutral field. Allowing no electromagnetic energy to pass in or out."

"That's a lot more time-consuming than the holy oil trap," Sam said as he closed his phone. "43.75° N, 110.83° W," he added to the angel.

Cas' mouth tightened. "Are you ready to go now?"

Ellie, Steve and Red went to the hall to grab their gear bags. Baraquiel moved closer to the angel. Sam walked to his wife and kissed her, feeling her fingers close around his arm for a moment then release him.

"Don't get killed," Trish said softly to him. He gave her a slightly strained smile.

"I won't."

He turned and walked to Castiel, crowding close to the angel with the others. The sound of wings filled the kitchen and then they were gone.

* * *

_**Teton Ranges, Wyoming**_

Cold. _Pain_. Noise.

Dean opened his eyes, feeling the lashes stuck together, lifting a hand and wincing as the movement brought a fresh flood of pain to his side. The wind was shrieking through the rent and crushed cabin, robbing him of the little body heat he still had. His head felt like shattered glass, even moving his eyes as he rubbed a little at the sticky liquid coating his lashes hurt. He looked down carefully, seeing the arm-rest of the seat angled up, pressing hard against his ribs. That explained the ache there, he thought. His foot was jammed under the seat in front of him, and he pushed back against his own seat, wriggling it until the boot came loose and he could pull it out.

Lightning sheeted overhead and he saw the others. Carl was unconscious, head tipped back against his seat. Charlie was on the floor between the rows of seats , a dark, unmoving shape barely lit by the emergency lights that ran along the floor of the aisle. He heard a deep groan ahead of him and raised his head, narrowing his eyes to slits as a flashlight beam played over the cabin.

"You alright?" Hanlon's voice was hoarse and thin.

"Yeah, mostly," he answered, closing his hands into fists, moving his feet. Nothing seemed to be too badly damaged. "You?"

"Busted my nose, I think," Rudy said, stepping cautiously over a seat that lay blocking the narrow corridor. In the reflected light from the flashlight Dean could see the man's nose had been pushed sideways, both eyes swollen and red around the sockets. "I might've cracked some ribs, breathing's a bitch."

"What happened?"

"Combination of cross-draught and down-draught, caught us as we dropped below the level of the peaks," Rudy grunted as he turned the light onto Carl and Charlie. "Couldn't pull her out of it after the engines stalled."

"That storm …" Dean left the sentence unfinished. Rudy nodded.

"Not natural," he confirmed. "The mountains get extreme weather, storms come up fast, are violent, but not like that. Nothing like that."

He turned the beam back onto the seats surrounding Dean, his forehead creasing as he looked at them. "If I haul back on this one, you think you can get out of there?"

Dean felt around himself and nodded. "I just need enough room to get clear of the arm-rest."

Rudy put the flashlight on the floor and moved behind the seat, gritting his teeth against the flex of his ribs as he pulled back. Dean shifted toward the window as the space got bigger, and pulled his legs up, nodding to the other man as soon as he was free.

"Walt's got a broken leg, I think," Rudy said as he let go of the seat and backed into the aisle again. "It'll take a couple of us to get him out."

Dean climbed slowly over the seat backs and pulled out his flashlight, flicking it on. The beam caught the other side of the plane and he looked silently at Pierre, feeling Rudy's gaze caught as well. The door beside the hunter's seat had been pushed into the plane, the struts from the folding steps were twisted to one side, going through the man's chest. He turned the light away, and neither man spoke.

Leaning over Charlie, Dean saw her pulse beating strongly against the thin skin on the side of her neck. With the light on her, he could see the dark mottling rising on the side of her face, her right arm bent unnaturally under the seat in front of him, the cloth of her denim jacket a dark red along the sleeve.

"I think Charlie's got a broken arm," he said, looking up at Hanlon. Rudy nodded, leaning over to check Carl.

"Just out cold. I can't see anything else," he said, taking a handful of Carl's jacket and pulling him upright in the seat. Carl coughed and his eyes snapped open, blinking rapidly against the brightness of the flashlight.

"W-w-what –," he stuttered, looking around. "Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean straightened up. "Any injuries?"

Carl closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. "I feel sore, all over, pretty much but nothing major." He twisted around in the seat, looking over the back. "Is Charlie alright?"

"Yeah, she's got a broken arm."

"Can you see the break?"

"No," Dean said, remembering Carl's medic's kit, the big box leftover from his brief career as a paramedic. "You got your stuff here?"

"I hope so," Carl said, nodding to Rudy as he manoeuvred himself out of the seats. "It was down the back." He looked down the cabin, spotting the grey metal case with its safety-orange lid.

Rudy looked out through the small window. The starboard-side wing was gone, but he could see the port-side wing through it, the metal fabrication bent up at an unlikely angle.

"Wings were full of fuel," he said tersely, looking at Dean. "Not sure how much time we're going to have to get everyone out so we should hustle."

Dean frowned, looking out through the window as well. "There's nothing burning that can set them off, is there?"

A moment later a lightning bolt hit the mountainside above them. Rudy looked at him sourly.

"Just those."

* * *

The plane had landed on the wingless side, mostly, Dean thought, looking at it as they carried Charlie out and down into the lee of a slightly overhanging spur of rock. Just as well, or Hanlon and Walt would've been dead on impact. The wing that was still attached to the frame had caught where the fold in the rock had narrowed, the nose of the plane flattened, but not crushed.

"We need to get our gear out of there," Rudy said, looking back up at the fuselage. Walt and Charlie were out, and Carl was doing what he could for them. Dean nodded, dragging in a breath and climbing again over the slick, iced rocks.

In the rear of the plane, their bags, holding mostly weapons and ammunition, had been thrown into a haphazard pile at the back of the cargo area. He picked his way carefully across the canted floor, and grabbed the first two bags, passing them back to Rudy and reaching forward to pick up a couple more.

The strike, right outside, made them both jump. Dean's head snapped around, the after-image of the blue-white light superseded by a softer, flickering yellow. Rudy scowled, turning and throwing the bags out through the hole in the cabin wall as far he could.

"It's caught, get moving," he said, taking the next two bags and heaving them out. In reinforced metal cases, bolted to the cargo bay floor, he had a lot of munitions, including packs of C4 and grenades. The plane would more than explode when the fire reached the wing. "That bag at the back," he said to Dean, gesturing weakly to the side of the plane where some gear was stored in nets. "It's got some camping gear, grab it."

Dean shifted awkwardly further to the rear of the plane, pulling at the elasticised netting with one hand as he gripped the big black duffle bag with the other. He could smell the faint scent of fuel now, burning on the ground outside the plane.

The bag snagged on a piece of torn metal and he pulled harder, finally hearing the canvas rip as it came free and he yanked it out. He shuffled forward, feeling his way past the loose cargo.

Rudy was out, dragging the gear bags away from the plane, two in each hand as he tried to lift them over the rocks. Dean threw the duffle out and scrambled down, his leg catching on a sharp edge as he half-rolled out through the hole, ignoring the bright pain that lanced through the outside of his thigh. He stumbled down to the black duffle, the firelight lighting his way and casting his shadow along the rocks in front of him, growing stronger as it hit the deeper pool of aviation fuel under the wing.

He'd almost made the sheltering edge of the spur when the flames found their way into the fuel tanks. Almost, but not quite. The whoompf of expanding air pushed him forward hard and he cartwheeled off the edge of the rock, hitting the ground several yards below and to one side of the spur as the wing was blown apart and shrapnel zipped over him into the darkness. The second, much bigger explosion followed the first in seconds, Rudy's ordnance overheating in the inferno. The whine of bullets and the booms of the grenades echoed off the bare rock and drowned out the clap of thunder overhead.

Dean lay on his back, a few yards lower than the spur of rock that sheltered Carl and Charlie, Walt and Rudy, trying to get air back into his lungs, feeling a steady trickle of liquid running down his neck and soaking through his jeans. _Close call_, he thought, closing his eyes against the brightness of the flames. He hoped that what they'd dragged clear was enough because he was pretty sure that there wasn't a piece of the plane larger than a half-dollar left.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

Ellie staggered slightly as she felt her feet reconnect with solid ground. The angel had gone and she dropped her bag beside her as she looked around. In the shadowy light she could see counters and cupboards, the bright green of a microwave clock and hear the soft hum of a fridge. They were inside the house, which had been warded by the firstborn and again by Cas. They should be invisible to the three.

"Where do you want to start?" Red looked down at her.

She looked at Sam. "You were here before. How many entrances are there? We could lay a trap at each, one person to light them?"

"No contact, you mean? Just hide and wait?" Sam frowned.

"Yeah, they won't know we're here, not until they're inside at least. And the other two will be carrying Maluch, I think."

He nodded. "Yeah."

He thought of the house layout and gestured to the front of the house. "Red, you and Steve want to take the front? Baraquiel and I can handle the back, there's just the one door going out to the pool," he said, looking back at Ellie. "There's an internal door to the garage, with a short tight hallway, you could take that, it'd only need one."

She nodded and walked out of the kitchen, pulling out the small, ceramic bottle from her bag as she turned toward the garage.

Dean had told her that the four firstborn in the house, Chasina, Idra, Lazio and Reuma, were held in three concentric circles of holy fire, in the living room. She was at the other end of the house from them, and they hadn't heard a sound since they'd been here. Steve and Red would be able to check on them as they went past to the front door.

She found the narrow hallway and nodded to herself, pouring out a wide square in front of the door leading to the garage. She could stay out of sight at the end, just drop her lighter onto the oil when she heard them enter.

It was a ten hour drive roughly from Portland. She wondered if they would come through Bend and onto the 205, or stay in California and come up the other way through Reno. Both routes were around the same length. How much did they know about where the hunters were? Coming through Bend would only be a risk if they knew. She capped the oil bottle and returned it to her gear bag, sliding down the wall next to the hall and settling herself into a comfortable position. They'd called the storm and crashed the plane and she veered away from those thoughts sharply. The quickest they could get here would seven or eight hours. The very quickest.

She could hear soft sounds in the house. The others preparing their traps. Looking over the plan again, she couldn't see any holes. They had the element of surprise and there was no reason for the firstborn to suspect that the traps had already been laid for them.

* * *

_**Sheraton Portland Hotel, Portland, Oregon**_

Chuma glanced at Maluch. "It's done, the plane is down."

"Are … dead?" Maluch dragged in a painful breath between the words, his eyes rolling around to Chuma.

"No," the nephilim said. "But we don't have to worry about them anymore. They won't be getting out of the mountains in a hurry. The crash site has been wound in illusion and walls of dreams. The angel won't be able to touch Heaven's power once he's there."

Maluch grimaced, struggling harder to sit more erectly. Beside him, Kitra put her arm around him, lifting him higher, her gaze meeting Chuma's worriedly.

"No. Dead … want … to … kill …all."

Chuma flinched inwardly at the grating voice. Maluch was degenerating much faster as time went on, as if the burns from the holy oil were penetrating deeper into his body.

"We might need Winchester," he said mildly.

"No. Azazel is in … the … brother." He closed his eyes for several moments, trying to force strength into his dying body. "Amaros … not … Winchester."

Chuma looked up at Kitra in surprise. "I thought that Winchester was descended from Azazel and Amaros, through the lines."

She shook her head. "We were wrong. The Winchester bloodline was from Araquiel. His wife's bloodline is Amaros."

"So the children have both lines?"

"But Sam Winchester is still the strongest of all of Azazel's," she confirmed. "His children can substitute, if we can't get him."

Chuma bit back the comment in his mind. They'd spent months and months chasing Dean Winchester around for nothing. They should have been together when the opportunity arose to take his children and their mother. Then they could have started the preparations immediately.

He pushed the thought aside and looked at Maluch. "Controlling any spell is going to hurt you worse, Maluch."

Maluch looked at him coldly, the once-vivid dark brown irises washed out now to a pale amber, the pupils tiny in the centres.

"Make … spell …"

Chuma nodded, cleaning away the remains of the circle he'd drawn for the storm, starting again for the new spell. The one he knew that would be the easiest for Maluch to wield. And one which would operate on its own so long as the wielder was alive.

Kitra watched him absently. She had a vehicle and she and Chuma had warded it thoroughly while Maluch had been sleeping. In some seemingly distant part of her mind, she could hear the others murmuring very, very faintly. Not even their fathers had known about that, she thought with a chilly satisfaction. They'd kept it a secret and now, thankfully, it was a way to get back to them. Maluch would die and soon unless they could all be together again, and feed the power of their union into his body.

* * *

_**Teton Range, Wyoming**_

The light bled in incrementally between the thick, low cloud that filled the gaps between the peaks, swirled delicately along the flanks of the mountains. Instead of an indistinct dark blur, Dean realised he could now see an indistinct light blur, with the sharp rock and drifts and mounds of snow occasionally becoming visible amidst the nacreous, shifting curtain of white.

"We'll need to carry Walt," Carl said softly to him, and he turned his head to look over at the hunter. Walt was lying near the base of the rock overhang, his skin white and waxen, his eyes closed. The break had been clean, but the bone had gone through the skin and it had taken Carl and Rudy a while to set it. Walt had passed out sometime in the middle of the procedure.

Beyond Walt, Charlie was sitting up, her arm splinted and in a sling, her head tipped back, the deep bruising shadowing half her face. Carl had straightened Rudy's nose and taped it, had taped the man's ribs as well.

Dean thought about what they could use to make a litter for Walt. The tree line was a couple hundred feet below them, invisible at the moment behind the grey walls of cloud. There'd be saplings, whitepine and fir and spruce. They could use one of the sleeping bags. He got to his feet, pushing back against the rock wall behind him.

"I'll come with," Rudy said, rolling onto his knees and picking up his rifle and an axe from the open gear bag beside him.

Dean looked at him for a moment then shrugged. Carl was fitter but it was probably a better idea if he stayed with the injured hunters. If they could get down the mountain, off the rock and gravel scree and into the forest, they'd be warmer and less likely to all die of hypothermia in the next couple of hours.

He pulled his jacket more closely around himself and started to move down the slope cautiously. The temperatures had dropped sharply when the storm had slowly worked out its rage, and most of the surfaces were slick with ice.

Both men were stiff and tense by the time they reached the thin forest that marked the edge of the tree-line on the side of the mountain, muscles trembling from the painstakingly slow descent, from the blisteringly cold wind that seemed to rise out of the iron-grey rock and deep snow pockets and reach through their clothes and into their bones.

Leaning in between the soft, springy boughs of a young fir, Rudy gestured weakly to the west.

"There's a trail, maybe four or five miles across that valley, leads back to a little town called Alta," he said breathlessly, cupping his hand over his mouth. "I think the trail is about nine or ten miles along to the town, not sure about that. If we can get onto it, we might meet some traffic."

Dean squinted at the vaporous cloud that drifted unhurriedly around them. "Sounds like a plan."

He looked back up the slope they'd just come down. "Always assuming we can get back up there and get Walt and Charlie down without killing ourselves, or them."

Rudy's teeth showed white against the ruddiness of his skin as he grinned. "Yeah, always assuming that."

Dean took the axe from him and cut down two long, straight saplings, using his machete to trim the branches and roughly whittle the ends to a size more suitable for hands. It would be him and Carl handling the litter, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the slope again. Rudy could help Charlie down, it wouldn't tax his ribs as much as carrying a deadweight would.

The forest was thin here but he could see that just another thirty or forty yards lower, it started to get thicker. In there, sheltered from the wind by the evergreen foliage, they would be a lot warmer, the trail would be a lot easier, the slope nowhere near as steep.

He passed the axe back to Rudy and lifted the saplings onto his right shoulder, finding the balance point and curling his arm around them to anchor them tight.

"I can take one," Rudy protested, looking at them. Dean shook his head. He could feel the pull of the muscles over his ribs with the position of the logs. They weren't very heavy, despite being green, but they were heavy enough, and it would make Hanlon's ribs a lot worse if he tried to carry and climb at the same time.

_Just a headwound and some bruising for you_, he thought caustically, and from a plane crash too. _Don't you feel lucky?_

The thought raised a derisive snort and he gestured with one hand to the slope, waiting until Rudy had begun to climb up again before he followed him.

* * *

An hour later he was coming back down again, sweat rolling down his face as he tried to find a secure foothold with Ryerson's weight driving downward against him, hearing Carl's huffing behind him, and the bitten-back and mostly-held-in groans from Walt as each downward step jarred him, even within the soft sling of the litter.

Ahead, he watched Charlie and Rudy creeping down the rock face, both carrying bags over their shoulders, holding rifles in their free hands. His watch had been a casualty of the crash, the arm-rest that had dug at him had smashed the face and he'd left it under the overhang when they'd moved out. As near as he could tell it must have been close to ten o'clock, but with the cloud sitting like a shroud over the mountains, the light was dim and shadowed mostly. Hanlon had said that the trail was north-west, along the valley floor and over a stream and then up on the next, much lower, ridgeline. At their current pace, he thought they might get there by sundown. If they could cross the stream. If the weather didn't worsen. If nothing else went wrong. He sighed and shifted his grip on the saplings, moving his foot slowly over the smooth rock and looking for the next secure spot, wishing he could wipe the sweat clear before it soaked into his clothes and froze against his skin.

_Flying_, he thought darkly. _For the birds_.

* * *

_**43.75° N, 110.83° W**_

Castiel stared around the rocks surrounding the crash site in disbelief. He could see the parts of the plane, scattered across the deep hollow he stood in, the scorch marks still evident on the rising side of the rock slabs where the plane had hit and burned.

Had the plane exploded like this on landing, he wondered? He saw an arm, severed and still in the sleeve that had once been attached to a jacket, and he stumbled forward, his senses stretched out. One body, he realised, with a deep shudder of relief. Just one. And not his friend's.

He reached out for the power of Heaven, intending to return to Nevada, and felt the block, the spell that had been laid over this place, holding him cloistered in a miasma of mist and cold and not-really-there.

The firstborn. Dean and the others must have gotten out before the spell had taken hold, but he was trapped on the frigid side of this mountain until the spell was dissolved. He turned around, moving slowly across the rock. He could find the boundaries, at least, could see if there was a weakness in the rings of illusion and magic that had been laid here.

* * *

_**Teton Ranges, Wyoming**_

It was just on dusk, Dean thought, when they reached the long dale floor, ground out between the peaks by a glacier, the alluvial dump of gravel and finely crushed sand crunching under their feet. The thin stands of twisted trees gave them some shelter from the icy wind that blew straight down the valley from the north, carrying a breath of snow and ice with it. His head was pounding again, and he could feel a trickle running down behind his ear. Slow and sticky, he was pretty sure it wasn't sweat.

"Trail's on the other side," Rudy said, pointing at the rising slope of the other side of the valley, not far away but almost invisible in the deepening gloom.

He nodded, looking around the sparse clearing they'd stopped in. "We'll get there tomorrow. We need to get a fire going, maybe a couple, dig in for the night."

Carl unrolled the long canvas tarpaulin and began to tie off the corners to the trees surrounding them, angling the slope of the material down to the ground. Dean stretched out and up, feeling the aching stiffness in his arms and shoulders and back, relieved that he didn't have to carry the end of the litter for at least another eight hours. Most of Walt's weight had been at his end, but he hadn't been prepared to entrust the necessary care of getting down the treacherous slopes to Carl. The incongruity of busting his ass to make sure that Walt was carried safely down hadn't escaped him. He shrugged inwardly. When the hunter was back on his feet, and in good health, then he could kill him.

He turned around and walked back a little through the trees, picking up an armload of branches that were scattered across the needle-covered ground. He wasn't sure of what animals might be living up here, but decided that he didn't want to meet any of them, not tonight.

* * *

Two fires were going well, lighting their faces, warming them, drying the cold, damp air around them, when they heard the first long, lonely ululation. Dean straightened up from where he'd been lying back against the bag, his eyes meeting Rudy's in a mute question.

"Wolf … but not timber wolf," Rudy answered softly, unable to explain how he knew it. A moment later it sounded again, this time joined by another howl, then another. The rising and falling notes were closer the second time, Dean thought. There was the faintest echo, as if the pack had entered a more enclosed space.

He looked around the clearing and got to his feet, dragging another pile of branches to the other side of the stretched tarp, taking a lit branch from the fire and thrusting it under the pile. Carl and Rudy got up as well, making new fires to either side of the encampment, their gazes flicking around the darkness nervously.

When the fires were going, Dean pulled out the double-barrelled sawn-off for Charlie, and the pump-action for Carl. Both guns were loaded with buck, packed with salt. Rudy picked up his rifle and sat down between two of the fires, checking his pockets for bullets and staring out into the darkness.

Dean picked up the .30-30 WCF, checking the load and leaving the hammer at half-cock. His father had kept the old lever-action rifle in mint condition, and he'd done the same, there were no worn or loose pieces in it and it would take down a deer at a hundred and seventy-five yards with ease. He moved around to take position between the two fires facing west of north, and set his flashlight down beside him. The light had an effective range of about forty yards, but it would be enough to see the reflectivity in an animal's eyes, give him a target.

The next time the howling sounded, it was obvious that the wolves were in the valley. The noise echoed from the narrowed walls only a few hundred yards to the north, muffled and ghostly sounding in the cloud that seemed to press more thickly around them.

He rolled to his knees and flicked on the flashlight, shining the beam in that direction. The moisture in the cloud reflected the light back, lighting up parts of the dense mist in front of him, creating darker shadows to the sides.

"What the fuck –" Carl's voice was shrill with disbelief as he pulled the trigger on the pump, the gun's crashing retort almost swallowed by the cloud that seeped into the camp. Dean swung around, his finger squeezing the trigger as he took in the huge grey chest, thick with fur, the massive blunt head, glowing amber eyes and long, white, pointed teeth, gleaming in the beam of the flashlight.

The wolf burst in between the fires, knocking Carl down and leaping for Charlie, seemingly uninjured by the buckshot rounds Carl had fired at it, or the double blast of buckshot and salt Charlie put into it. The .30-30 sounded quiet and flat, and Dean watched the bullets hitting the creature, knocking it a little to one side with each impact, but having little other effect. What kind of animal could take those hits? The thought flashed through his mind without an answer.

Rudy screamed from behind him and he spun around, taking a long stride forward and dragging up a burning branch from the fire beside Hanlon, thrusting into wide open mouth of the monstrous dark brown wolf that stood over him, sagging with relief when it yelped and leapt away from them.

"Fire," he shouted back over his shoulder, handing the burning branch to Hanlon and grabbing another one from the fire. He saw Charlie drop the shotgun and roll hard to the edge of the fire, her face twisting in pain as she pulled out a long branch half-alight and shoved it into the face of the wolf that was right behind her. The grey wolf reared back and _fuck_, he thought with an edge of hysteria, the thing was bigger than a man on its hind-legs, then it had gone, back into the thick cloud and darkness.

"No!"

He turned, seeing Rudy jump to his feet from the corner of his eye, Carl lunging forward into the darkness as Walt's body disappeared ahead of him, the injured hunter screaming. There wasn't time for thought, just reaction, he cleared the fire, swinging the brightly burning torch over his head as he saw the huge tracks, twin furrows in between them, and he was racing over the needles and gravel, feeling the ground dropping slowly, closer to the stream. He could hear them, hear Walt's shrieks, distorted, dissonant in the mist, getting further away at a speed that was impossible. He turned back, running hard for the camp as he heard more gunfire.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

The thump against the side of the house was not loud. Ellie was on her feet, moving away from the hall and through the shadows of the dining room as she heard a second, softer thud from the same direction.

She flattened against the exterior wall, lifting the edge of the heavy, dark curtains and looking obliquely out along the wall. At the far end of the portion of the exterior wall she could see, there was a slight movement. The house formed an inverted corner there, shadowed by the roofline.

She turned away from the wall and walked quickly back to the hall, stepping over the oil line and easing the interior garage door open, slipping through the narrow gap and closing it again silently. No cars stood in the three bays, but shelving lined the walls and she could make the vague outlines of cans of paint, a ladder leaning against one wall, workbenches and coils of rope and wire hanging neatly beside them. The triple car garage had a small postern door next to the big roller doors, and she opened it, leaving it ajar as she stepped outside.

The moonlight was fitful, as cloud moved slowly across the sky, and she waited for a moment, her eyes closed, for her vision to adjust. When she opened them, she could see the outline of the house clearly. Front or back, she wondered? The thump had been from the back.

Working steadily along the walls, keeping within the line of shadow thrown by the wide eaves, she turned the corner and stopped. The outdoor compressor condenser for the home's air-conditioning sat in the corner where she'd seen the movement from the dining room window. Beside it, there was a tall gas cylinder.

Ellie ducked under the level of the window sills, moving fast down the concrete path until she was in the shadows of the corner. She crouched beside the cylinder, seeing the outlet hose leading into the air intake of the condenser. A smaller, aluminium bottle had been screwed into the regulator at the top of the large cylinder. Even in the semi-darkness, she could read the label on the bottle easily enough. Sevoflurane, USP. _Anaesthetic_. On the gas cylinder the label was also clear. N2O. Nitrous oxide.

_Fuck._

She unscrewed the bottle and set it on the ground, closing the regulator cock and decoupling the hose into the condenser, ignoring the wash of uneasiness that filled her. How much would it take to knock out everyone in the house? How long?

Getting to her feet, she slid around the corner and into the deeper shadows between the side of the house and the high retention wall behind it, running down the narrow length of the path to the front of the house and stopping where the sharp line of shadow cut across the path. She could see a short section of the road above, between the groves of the trees that shielded the house from the highway. The moonlight picked out the edges of the black four-wheel drive sitting there. The road descended down to the house for nearly half-a-mile, she thought vaguely. Easy enough to coast down the slope, the engine off and their lights off and had taken the same path as she'd just come up to get to the back of the house, unseen, unheard by Steve and Red at the front, or Sam and Baraquiel at the back.

Turning, she ran back along the side of the house, stopping at the tall, narrow, fixed window that let light into the laundry area. She could just make out the bodies, lying on the floor.

_Alright, Sam and the Watcher were the closest to the vents, got the full dose as soon as it came into the house_, she thought furiously, _Steve and Red might still be conscious_.

_And if they weren't?_ There was no way she could trap the three in a holy oil trap now. They would be looking for it as soon as they got into the house. _How the fuck had they'd known that we were here_, she wondered? Neither the question nor the answer could help right now, and she pushed it aside. _What else? Come on, think, what else?_

A shadow moved on the wall inside, and she flattened herself against the exterior wall, shifting further from the window slowly. They were inside now. She wasn't sure if they would be able to breach the holy oil fires that held the others or not. Fire was fire, even holy fire could be damped down if it was deprived of oxygen.

_Move faster._

Ducking below the window's level, Ellie ran back around the house, relieved to see that the garage door was still ajar. She slid through the gap and closed the door without a sound, then turned on her heel and strode to the shelves, letting her gaze run over them, looking for anything that might spark an idea. She stopped in front of the long coil of wire.

It was large gauge fencing wire, mild steel. On the floor below was a half a roll of fine gauge steel mesh netting. She thought of the dining room, the picture rail that circled the room at just above eye-level, the lack of furniture around the walls. The charge on the outside couldn't be grounded, she thought, every gap would have to be covered. There was power socket on the wall of the room, close by the door.

She looked along the bench and picked up a pair of pliers lying on the top, sliding them into her jacket pocket. Wire cutters were incorporated under the flat gripping tips. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the roll of netting and the coil of wire and walked back to the door leading to the interior of the house.

* * *

_**Teton Ranges, Wyoming**_

The wolves were still there. The snarling and other sounds had stopped after an hour, but he could feel them, beyond the light of the fires, listening, scenting them, waiting.

_For what_, he wondered?

"How many do you think there are?" Charlie looked at him. He shook his head.

"We heard three distinct voices, saw three of them clearly," he said slowly. "Maybe there're just those three. I don't know."

"They're not real, are they?" she asked, blue eyes wide and over-bright against the grime that covered her face. "I mean, not real animals."

He glanced at Rudy, who shook his head. "No. I don't know what they are but what we've got here isn't going to kill them."

"We have to get out of here," Rudy said softly. "Make a run for the trail."

Dean raised a brow at him. "Running fight, in the dark, in the fog, across terrain we don't know, against monsters we can't kill?"

"We can't just sit and wait here."

"No," he agreed on a quiet exhale. The nephilim had landed in Portland yesterday, they could already be at Bend by now. He'd lost his phone chasing after Walt and he didn't feel like going to look for it. There was no signal here anyway. "No, we can't sit here, but I'd rather wait for light than try and fight them in the dark."

Carl looked from one to the other. "He's right. We don't have that much better visibility in daylight, but we need whatever advantages we can scrape up."

Rudy nodded. The last wolf had left the camp when the snarling had started. Carl had a set of long, deep claw marks across his back from it. They'd thrown wood into the gaps between the fires, making a circle around them.

"You two get some sleep," Dean said to Carl and Charlie. "We'll watch until dawn."

Carl opened his mouth to protest that he wouldn't be able to sleep anyway, looked at Dean's face and closed it again. Rest, if not sleep, he thought uncomfortably, easing himself down on the hard ground, shivering in spite of the fires surrounding him as the cold of the gravel under him seeped through his clothes.

"How much longer till the sun comes up?" Dean turned and asked Rudy quietly, when both Carl and Charlie had closed their eyes and were giving at least the appearance of resting.

"Three hours," Rudy answered, twisting his wrist to angle his watch face to the firelight. "The cloud might not lift."

Dean shook his head. "It doesn't matter. They'll come as soon as we move. We'll have to go as fast as we can, but crossing the stream is going to be a bitch."

"Yeah," Rudy thought about it. He wasn't sure how deep the snow would be, out of the shelter of the trees, and the stream would arctic. Just getting wet, they'd lose so much body heat they'd slow down, get clumsy.

"You ever seen things like those before?" Dean asked.

"I've seen wolves like that – in encyclopaedias," Rudy said dourly. "Dire-wolves. Extinct now. Used to be around when the mammoths were big."

"So they were real … once?"

"Yeah," Rudy looked over at him. "That's not what these are, though. Not real animals brought back to life. This is a spell."

"Mmm."

"You don't think so?"

Dean heard a faint thread of defensiveness in the man's voice and rubbed a hand tiredly over his jaw. "Honestly, I have no idea of what this is. Or why anyone – aside from the firstborn – would do it. And if it's the firstborn, I keep asking myself why would they go to all this trouble to kill us, when the storm that brought the plane could've done it, or just leaving us here might still do it."

"Good point," Rudy said, the guarded tone gone.

They watched the darkness beyond the fires in silence for a while, and Dean saw that both Carl and Charlie had really gone to sleep, the shift in their breathing giving them away. They'd need it, he thought, chewing at the corner of his lip as he looked at them.

"Pierre said that you married Ellie Morgan?"

Dean looked around at him warily. "Yeah."

"Is she happy? Doing okay?" Rudy asked, looking down at the rifle across his legs.

"Uh, I think so. As much as we can be, considering that we're at the front line again," Dean said, his mouth twisting up derisively. He wasn't sure if he wanted to have this conversation or not.

"That's good," Rudy murmured, looking sideways at him. "We weren't – it wasn't – I mean, we weren't in love or anything like that."

"Just good friends?" Dean asked, one brow lifted ironically.

Rudy laughed, a little self-consciously. "No. I was trying to forget someone. I think she was too."

"Huh."

"Sorry, I shouldn't've mentioned it," Rudy said with a rushed exhale, feeling unaccountably nervous of the man sitting a few feet from him.

"It's okay," Dean said, noting with some surprise that it was. "She said your mother was a psychic?"

"Yeah." He looked uncomfortable. "She could touch anything, tell you all about it."

Dean shivered slightly at the thought of that. Rosie could do that too. And Marc.

"You must have been trained for hunting as a kid, running at crew at twenty-four?" he asked, suddenly not wanting to discuss the topic he'd raised.

Rudy looked at him quizzically. "No, I – my mother and I, we knew about hunters, but I didn't start until I was eighteen," he said slowly. "My father – uh, my father disappeared the year before, and – well, I found out a few things about him."

"Disappeared?" Dean asked.

"He left," Rudy said bluntly. "I didn't know that until a while ago. But he and my mother had a – a falling out, I guess you could call it. She didn't say what it'd been about."

"Sorry."

Rudy shrugged. "Can't do much about your family, right?"

"Was he a hunter?"

"No," Rudy said, staring at the fire. "He's a fallen angel."

* * *

_**43.75° N, 110.83° W**_

Castiel looked down at the tiny gleam on the ground. He crouched and picked up the watch, knowing who it belonged to. The glass face had been cracked, the mechanism behind it crushed. He stared at the leather band. It was intact, indicating it had been removed deliberately, he thought, not torn off.

There were no cracks or slips along the boundaries of the spells that ringed the place. Dean was alive, presumably at least some of the others as well. He couldn't help them. Couldn't help himself. Couldn't help Ellie and Sam with what they were trying to do in Nevada.

He sat down in the shelter of the overhanging rock and exhaled. He hadn't felt this useless since he'd woken in a hospital, feeling pain, and an insect bite that had almost driven him crazy with the desire to scratch it.

He hadn't seen Amaros since Lucifer had been destroyed, in the cavern on the first level of Hell. The Watcher had been cagey about arranging a meeting, but had agreed reluctantly when he'd told him of what the firstborn were planning. Amaros had known the whole story. Had known about the key and the way it would be used. It was important that he got out of here, he thought vaguely. Important that he tell the hunters about the key.

He sat for a long moment, considering that. The importance of it. Then he looked back down at the watch, Amaros and the key and the importance of it forgotten again.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

Ellie set the wire silently down on the carpet and pulled the pliers from her pocket. The walls and much of the flooring in the house were concrete or tiled. She could distantly hear voices, the firstborn together again, but separated, she hoped, by the holy fire.

Very limited time frame. _Get on with it_, she told herself. The fencing wire was reasonably malleable and she ran the length around the room several times, leaving the doorway open, but joining the wires above it and below it, along the floor. The netting was far more springy, and she thought it would spring back across the door if she left a good flap of it loose at one end, held it back while they entered. The timing would have to be exactly right, and she couldn't figure out how to insulate herself when the time came. But perhaps that was a minor consideration at this point.

She'd expected to hear from Cas, or from Dean, or from someone at the house. But there'd been nothing. She wasn't sure what that meant. Had Cas made it to the crash site? Where were they? She didn't think about the other question. If the crash had been fatal … Cas would be back by now.

The wire and netting mesh formed a loose boundary around the room, joined together, and creating a single closed circuit. She looked at the end of the wire and the held-back gate of mesh carefully. It would close the circuit, once they were in the room. All she had to do was get them in here.

She took a deep breath, thinking of the rough layout of the house Sam had drawn for her, back in Oregon. Two rights and she'd be in the living room. With them. Two lefts to bring them back here. She stepped out through the door, drawing the SIG from the modified shoulder-holster under her jacket and racking the slide. The noise seemed huge in the quiet house. She saw their shadows moving on the wall as she came around the last corner, the handgun already raised and firing.

* * *

_**Teton Ranges, Wyoming**_

"Run!" Dean ground out, reaching out and grabbing the back of Charlie's jacket, lifting her to her feet. She cried out as her arm banged into his and he ignored it, letting go of her collar and shoving her forward, twisting to the side and swinging the long, lit branch at the wolf that leapt toward him.

On the other side, Rudy and Carl were running as well, slightly ahead of him. Their chests heaved as the cold air bit into their throats and lungs, each breath like dragging in a mouthful of powdered glass. The deep, powdery snow clung to them, further soaking their wet clothes, filling boots and making every stride a nightmarish struggle.

They were on the other side of the creek, and to Dean's intense disappointment, the wolves had had no problems at all crossing the sluggishly moving water. Another bit of lore proved wrong, he'd thought caustically as he'd watched them jump over the narrow waterway.

"Ahead!" Rudy gasped, and Dean turned his head, seeing the dilapidated cabin, dark against the white snow banks. "We can make that!"

He bit back the retort that immediately sprang to mind and nodded. He couldn't run like this for much longer and he thought that Charlie was going to collapse any minute. It would give them walls to put their backs against, if nothing else.

The black wolf veered close to him, teeth snapping at the hem of his jacket and he jammed the flaming branch into the eye he could see, feeling a moment of savage satisfaction at the high-pitch yelp.

Looking back at the cabin, he saw Carl reach the stone porch, staggering as he half-lifted Charlie up the step, Rudy a few paces behind him. He was on a slightly different line from the others, and he didn't see the implement buried under the snow, hitting the curving metal at knee height and pitching helplessly over the top of it, his burning branch buried in the drift, snow covering his face as he frantically wiped his eyes clear. He saw the three huge heads getting closer as he tried to scramble backward, tethered to whatever it was under the snow by his boot.

"Dean!" Rudy's shout came from behind him, but he couldn't look, couldn't take his eyes off the glowing amber eyes in front of him. He felt around in the snow surrounding him, feeling a long, flat bar and pulling it free just as the black wolf surged forward.

The metal bar broke free of the snow and struck the wolf on its downward arc. Dean flinched back from the gaping mouth as the bar touched its throat and blinked as the wolf disappeared. He looked at the bar that he still held up, the decades-old rust coating his hand and crumbling from the edges.

_Iron._

He twisted his foot and freed his boot, rolling onto his knees and swinging the bar toward the grey wolf on his left. The wolf leapt and the bar touched its chest and it disappeared.

"Iron!" he yelled to no one in particular, spinning around to see Rudy wielding a long iron poker like a baseball bat, flat and horizontal to the ground, aimed for the dark wolf's head.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

Ellie turned and ran, hearing the pounding footsteps behind her. She had no idea if she'd hit any of them, hadn't really seen their faces. She felt her feet skid out slightly on the slick tiles as she made the last corner and flung her arm out for balance, diving into the dining room and rolling back to the wall beside the doorway. The smack of soles on the hard, tiled floor disappeared as the nephilim ran past her and onto the carpeted floor, swinging around wildly as they searched the room for her. She barely saw them, counting three pairs of legs, rolling backward out of the room, the mesh end springing back with its inorganic memory of the tightness of the roll, the bare steel wire in her hand.

She looked down at the live socket beside the door, behind the netting, and jammed the free end of the wire into the slot, and the world vanished as the live A/C current coursed through the wire she held, enclosing the nephilim, and crackled through her, disrupting the electrical impulses in her brain, contracting every muscle to a stone-like rigidity, stopping her heart.

* * *

_**43.75° N, 110.83° W**_

Castiel blinked rapidly and stood up, the fuzziness that had overtaken his mind gone. He reached out for the power of Heaven and felt it flowing into him, filling him up.

The cloud and mist that had wrapped the mountain peak was clearing, dissolving into tattered shreds as the wind freshened against the side of his face and he heard Dean's voice, bellowing from the valley below. He looked down and saw them, far up the valley, small black dots against the crisply white snow.

He disappeared and the echo of beating wings muttered softly from the hard rock faces.

* * *

_**Teton Ranges, Wyoming**_

"What the fuck?!" Rudy stared at the space where the wolf had been a second ago. It hadn't been the iron rod, it had disappeared before he'd finished the swing.

"Did you see where it went?" He looked over at Dean, who shook his head.

Carl stepped onto the porch, looking around. "The cloud's breaking up."

Castiel appeared in front of Rudy. The hunter stumbled backward. Dean looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Cas, you here to rescue us?"

"Yes."

He nodded, gesturing to the cabin behind him. "We could use a little angel TLC first."

"Of course," Cas looked at Rudy's nose and eyes and reached out, touching him lightly on the forehead.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

The sound of wings was loud in the silent house and the hunters looked around in astonishment, Dean the only one used to the angel's instantaneous mode of transport. They were standing in a wide hallway. The living room, lit by the rings of holy fire, open to their left. Behind them, the hall ran down to the front door, and Carl started when he saw Steve and Red lying in the shadows.

"What happened?" He ran down the hall, crouching beside them, his hand going to the carotid artery in Steve's neck to check for a pulse automatically.

Dean turned to look at them and felt a jolt through his nervous system at the sight of their unconscious bodies. He spun around and walked fast down the hall in the other direction.

"Rudy, Charlie, check the other rooms," he barked out harshly. Cas had told him about Ellie's plan in the wreck of a cabin. She was here, somewhere, and Sam.

He stopped as he came around the last corner to the dining room doorway. The doorway was barricaded with wire mesh, Maluch lying on the table in the centre of the room, Kitra and Chuma standing by the doorway, looking down at the figure who lay motionless on the floor, several feet from the doorway.

"Ellie?" Dean accelerated down the hall, dropping beside her. He saw the black line across her fingers, burned deeply into the flesh where she'd held the wire. Her skin was dead white, freckles standing out clearly over her nose. He rested his fingertips against her neck, feeling her pulse beating arrhythmically in her artery. But beating, he thought, dragging in a breath.

"She electrocuted herself when she trapped us," Kitra said in a low voice. "The power threw her."

"Cas!"

"I'm here," the angel said quietly beside him. He rested his fingertips against Ellie's forehead and Dean watched the burn line disappear from her hand, colour return to her cheeks, the bruised-looking shadows around her eyes vanish. Under his fingers, curled around her wrist, he felt her heartbeat strengthen, become steady.

The angel nodded and got to his feet, looking at the nephilim. "I can heal your companion, but I will not unless you agree to go into a circle of fire."

Kitra's eyes narrowed for a moment, and she felt Chuma's hand on her arm. She released her breath in a long, slow exhale and nodded agreement.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The big living room was lit only by the fire on the hearth, the air warm and the circle of light enclosing them. Dean leaned back against the arm of the sofa, his legs stretched out to either side of Ellie, lying in front of him, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

"He said his father is a fallen angel," he said softly, into her hair, his gaze on the flickering firelight.

"Did he say which one?" Ellie tilted her head to one side, her temple resting against the flat curve below his collarbone.

"No." He looked down at her. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know," she admitted, unsure of how important it was. Cas might know, or one of the other Watchers.

"What now?" Dean ducked his head, his cheek resting against hers, his arms tightening fractionally around her. He inhaled her scent, felt the smoothness of her skin, listened to her, watched her, held her … the need was a reaction, he knew, to what had happened. Knowing what it was didn't stop it or lessen it, though.

He felt her ribs lift and fall under his arms. "Now it's time for the main performance," she said quietly. "The Watchers can meet up with the angels and do whatever it is they're going to do to convince the firstborn that Heaven is highly overrated."

"You sound … cynical," he said, his tone wry.

Ellie smiled, her nose wrinkling up a little as one side of her mouth lifted. "None of them are objective; they all operate on emotion, even Michael and Iophiel. I thought Baraquiel would be able to show them, but now I'm not so sure."

"Not our problem anymore, right?"

"Let's hope not," she said, closing her eyes and relaxing back against him.

* * *

**END**


	20. Chapter 20 The Key to Heaven

**Chapter 20 The Key to Heaven**

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

_It's in the bloodlines. _The police assume that the driver burned to death_. No one's heard from her, not since you saw her in Manhattan. _The light that had drained the colour from everything, shattering the glass and the bricks and the structure of the building_. Crowley's mirror, and the image it reflected back to him. _Blood, seeping into the ground, the grinding rumble of a stone gate opening_. I mean, she died. She went into the light in order to talk to God. _Did you know they were looking for her?_ The cold sensation of life being pulled out of him through his soul. _Designs painted in blood, painful to look at. _The glint of the Fallen's knife as the collar was cut free. _

Dean twisted around, his eyes screwed tightly shut, brows drawn tightly together as he tried to escape from the images that filled the dream. Somewhere, he knew he was dreaming, knew he was in his bed, in the big corner bedroom in the house in Oregon, overlooking the valley. He tried to find his way back to there, but the images surrounded him, pressing against him, clinging to him like cobwebs and the harder he fought to be free of them, the more closely they wrapped around him.

Red eyes and marble skin_. Bruising around her neck, deep and livid. _The burst of colour over the black rocks in the flashlight's glare, copper-coloured hair and bright red blood_. An unmoving body in a hallway, not a mark but the black line burned deep into her flesh. _No one knows what happens to people who are mistakenly cut from the loom of Fate before they die_. It's in the bloodlines._

_He saw a long room, maybe a warehouse, shadowed at the corners. To one side, there was a man, not really a man, something more, light shining from him. The nephilim stood in a circle. One raised a long blade, the edge gleaming in the light of the man. He saw a movement from the corner of his eye, felt the scream rushing up his throat, his body frozen in shock at the too-familiar figure. From the centre of the circle, light exploded outwards, the concussion throwing everyone to the floor._

_It's in the bloodlines._

He sat up, chest heaving as if all the air in the room had gone. He looked right and dragged in a deep breath as he saw her shape under the covers, short hair bright against the pillows in the pale silver light that slanted across the bed. Ellie turned over and opened her eyes, looking up at him.

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, just – it's okay, go back to sleep."

"Nightmare?" She rubbed her eyes and propped herself on her elbow, the drowsiness vanishing as she looked at him worriedly.

Dean sighed, lying back against the pillows, rubbing a hand over his face and feeling it come away wet. "Not really, weird dream," he hedged.

She shifted toward him, her hand running over his chest, feeling the sweat there.

"Had you pretty agitated for just weird," she said mildly.

"I'll get dried off." He pushed back the covers and slid his legs out, not sure what to tell her. _I had a dream that recapped every single time I lost you?_ How did that help – either of them? In the bloodlines. That wasn't a help either. He knew about their bloodlines. Lucifer had needed them. The firstborn needed them. That wasn't news.

Closing the bathroom door, he flicked on the light and walked to the sink. He turned on the tap, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it over his face and neck, letting it run through his hair. The cold helped to distance the whole thing, push it back into the shadowed recesses and let him think again.

Was it just the responsibility thing, he wondered, staring at himself in the mirror. Some of those times he'd actually been there and there hadn't been a goddamned thing he could've done about it. The other times, when he hadn't … he wished he had, but he still didn't think he could've changed anything. Uriel's intervention had been before he'd even believed in angels.

He pulled the towel from the rail and dried himself off. Had it been a – a reminder of some sort? Or a warning? He didn't need any reminders for those times, those feelings. He knew how deep that fear ran in him and how bad the pain would be.

The last fragment of the dream, before he'd pulled himself free, that'd been different. That hadn't been a memory, not of his, not even a memory of her telling him one of hers. That'd been new.

He leaned on the sink, trying to remember it now, the details of it. It'd been the Circle, he was pretty sure of that. Had the man leaking light been an arch? Michael? He'd seen Michael without a vessel twice before, in Kansas when Hell had risen and in Rome. He hadn't been able to see the light-filled man clearly enough to recognise the archangel's construct he remembered from those times.

He thought it'd been Maluch, standing in the centre, holding something and Ellie had run past him. And then … what'd happened then? He couldn't remember. He'd woken, he thought, at that point.

Turning off the light, he opened the door and walked back to the bed. Lying on her side, Ellie was looking at him, her face shadowed, one hand propped under her cheek. He slid under the light, soft covers, the sheet chilly under his skin, moving across the space until he lay next to her.

He put his arms around her, pulling her closer, and she wrapped her arms around him, her lips travelling up his neck in small, gentle kisses that demanded nothing of him, were her unspoken reassurances that she was there, that he wasn't alone, that she loved him.

A deep shiver ran through him. _Not a premonition_, he thought savagely, his arms tightening around her. _Just a fucking dream, nothing to worry about_. He bent his head, his lips seeking hers. All those times, when he'd thought she was dead, thought he'd lost her, he hadn't … she was here, warm and alive. He deepened the kiss, trying to ignore the thread of desperation that infused it.

* * *

"So, when do the arcs make their entrance?" Laney looked at Dean from over the rim of her cup. The kitchen table was still half-covered with the remains of breakfast, but the children had gone out and Ellie was moving around the room efficiently, collecting the dirty dishes, rinsing everything and stacking the dishwasher. He watched her obliquely, while he drank his coffee.

At the hunter's question, Dean shifted his gaze reluctantly to Laney and shrugged. "You'll have to ask Baraquiel, he's running this part of the show."

He shot a sideways glance at the sink, relief taking the edge from the slow-growing sense that if he left Ellie alone, if he couldn't see her or touch her, she might … somehow … disappear. It wasn't a rational thought and he struggled against it, knowing that she'd already felt it in him, seen it in him, not asking about it, not yet, but she would, if he didn't keep it under some sort of control.

He'd woken with a faint feeling of misgiving. By the time he'd showered and dressed, it'd escalated to a feeling of unease. The only thing that subdued it was seeing her. Brushing his fingertips against her when they passed each other. Pressing his knee against hers when she sat down beside him, her hands cradling a coffee, her eyes flicking briefly to him then moving to Laney.

Resisting the impulse to move his chair closer to her, feeling as if he was already telegraphing his feelings around the entire room, a feeling reinforced by the narrow-eyed thoughtful look he was getting from the small, blonde hunter, Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked down at his cup.

"In a couple of days, I think," Ellie said to Laney, sipping her coffee. "Why?"

"Are we going to be there? See them packed off upstairs?" Laney asked, looking around as Greg came and flashing him a quick smile.

"You want to get close to that nest of vipers again?" Greg's brows drew together as he looked at his partner. "I'd pass."

"I've been working my butt off the last few months hunting them down," Laney scowled at him. "Damned right I want to see the end of it!"

He smiled at her suddenly. "Bloodthirsty, aren't we?"

She laughed, in spite of herself. "Yeah, I might be, just a little."

Dean watched Ellie smile, turning his head a little, wondering if it looked natural.

"Besides, I haven't seen an archangel, don't you think that's somethin' to tell the grandkids?" Laney watched Greg walk to the counter and pour himself a coffee.

"They're not that inspiring," Ellie said dryly, looking at the door as Carl and Rudy came in, both men looking tired.

"Coffee's on the counter," she said, getting up. "I'll make you some breakfast."

"I'll help," Dean added, getting up and going to the fridge, ignoring the sudden beat of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.

"Who aren't that inspiring?" Rudy asked, yawning as he filled a cup and took it to the table.

"Archangels, apparently," Laney answered, one brow lifting as she looked at him. "You boys have a session after I hit the hay, or what?"

"Just not done catching up, sweetheart, it's been a helluva week," he said, swallowing half his coffee. "Ellie tells me you got a couple of girls, Laney."

The kitchen filled with the smell of cooking bacon, eggs and toast, the murmur of conversation surrounding the table, the soft whirr of the coffee grinder as Ellie ground more beans and refilled the filter machine. Dean broke the eggs into the hot pan, laid out the bacon on the broiler, his actions automatic, his attention elsewhere.

"C'mon, Ellie, are we going to this shindig or not?" Laney asked, raising her voice slightly. He turned a little from the stove to catch her response.

Looking out the window, Ellie shrugged. "You can ask Baraquiel yourself, he's on his way over."

The red-haired Watcher came into the kitchen a few moments later, and Ellie passed him a cup of coffee as he sat down at the table, looking around at the hunters.

"Michael and Iophiel will be at the house the day after tomorrow," he said without preamble. He turned to Dean and Ellie. "I would like some hunters to be with us there."

"Why?" Dean felt his uneasiness step up a notch at the request.

"A show of strength isn't likely to impress Michael," Ellie said to the Watcher doubtfully.

"No, but a lot of witnesses might temper his emotions," Baraquiel replied, long fingers curling around the warm cup as he looked at her. "He might act rashly if there are none."

"Well, I'm in," Laney interjected, pushing her empty plate to one side. "I want to see them gone."

Baraquiel glanced at her and nodded. "The more we can have, standing at our backs, the stronger our position will be."

He looked back to Dean. "I would feel better if you, Adam and Sam were there also."

Dean felt a flutter of anxiety and clamped down on it. "Why?"

"Michael is hot-headed and impatient. But he is not unjust. He knows what your family have paid already, knows where Castiel's loyalties lie, knows that you hold a strong line in the weaving of Destiny. I think," he hesitated for a moment, glancing at Ellie. "I think he will stop and consider the ramifications of any course of action if you are there to witness it."

He might be right about that, Dean thought. He'd thwarted the archangel's plans enough times to maybe make him think about what he was going to do, instead of just doing it. He didn't want to leave. And he didn't want Ellie anywhere near the house in Lovelock. But of the two choices, the first was likely to be more manageable.

"Ellie doesn't go," Dean said, his chest tightening as he said the words.

An oddly potent silence fell in the room at the pronouncement. The Watcher and hunters were looking at Ellie, who sipped her coffee, her gaze downcast, plainly wondering what her reaction would be. Dean wondered that as well … the last time he'd tried to arbitrarily make a decision for her, he'd been forced into backing out of it.

She looked up and nodded. "I need to be here."

Dean let out his held breath, catching the glances exchanged between Laney and Rudy, then Carl got up, collecting the empty dishes and carrying them to the sink, and Baraquiel stood as well, finishing his coffee.

"We'll leave on Tuesday evening," he said quietly. Dean nodded abruptly and the Watcher turned and left.

"I should go and loosen up, haven't done any training for a while," Laney said to Greg. He nodded, his gaze sliding to Carl and Rudy at the end of the table.

"Yeah, got weapons that need cleaning," Rudy added, getting up as the others did. "I leave my gear in your truck, Carl?"

The kitchen emptied and Ellie sipped her coffee, looking at the surface of the table in front of her, letting the silence stretch out.

Dean sighed, rubbing his hand across his jaw as he looked at her. "All right. The dream – it had something to do with you and the Circle. And I think Michael was in it."

She turned her head to him, raising a brow quizzically. "You're worried it was a premonition?"

"I don't know," he said, looking down at the table in frustration. "I don't want to take the chance."

"That's fair enough," she said, looking back down at her cup.

He waited for the next question. The obvious question. But she stood up, walking to the sink with her cup and rinsing it out.

"John and Rosie wanted to show you something this morning," she said, looking out through the window down to the cold, bare garden where the children were playing some kind of game with a ball.

He got up and walked to her, standing behind her and looking out over her shoulder. She hadn't asked why he hadn't told her. He felt a space, widening between them, and wondered if he was causing it. She hadn't asked why he wouldn't leave her alone, either. She gave him time, as a general rule. Time to figure things out on his own. Time to understand himself. She would only ask if she saw him floundering. He _was_ floundering, he thought dourly. But maybe he was hiding that well enough.

He ducked his head and kissed the side of her neck, arms closing loosely around her, a trembling sensation filling him as the thought flashed through his mind of not being able to do this, of losing her.

* * *

"Daddy, watch!" Rosie insisted, turning from him to look hard at the ball that lay on the ground in front of her. He looked at it, starting slightly as it began to wobble on the flattened grass, then roll, slowly at first, gathering speed as it headed for her brother. John looked at his father with a delighted grin and then down at the ball, and the ball turned away from him, rolling toward Laura. One by one, the children pushed the ball around their circle with their minds and Dean swallowed, glancing at Sara and Leah, who stood next to him. Their expressions were identical – unalloyed admiration. But kids were happy to believe in anything, he thought uncomfortably.

"How, uh –" he started to say when the ball stopped in the centre of the circle, but Laura cut him off.

"We're not finished, Uncle Dean, watch this," she said, holding her hands out to either side, to her cousins. Rosie took her hand and closed her fingers around the hand of Marc to her left; Marc reached for John's hand and the circle was closed. Dean felt his stomach drop as he watched the ball spin on its axis in the centre, much more controlled now, faster and faster as it rose from the ground straight up in the air, over the children's heads, spinning so fast he couldn't see the painted lines on it anymore.

The four children stood completely still, eyes closed, concentrating on the ball and each other. There was a sudden, loud popping sound and Marc's face fell, the ball slowing down, an empty bladder with a gaping hole in one side. It sank through the air, falling the last couple of feet to the ground with a dispirited thud.

"Sorry," Marc said, opening his eyes and looking guiltily around the circle at the other children. "I pushed too hard."

"S'okay, Marc," John said quickly, releasing his hand and bending over to pick up the empty skin. "Rosie can fix it."

He handed it to his sister and she looked at it for a long moment, her face screwed up in concentration. Dean watched in disbelief as the split in the side drew itself together, and the plastic skin melted along the join smoothly, sealing up the hole.

"That's so awesome," Sara said, walking forward and taking the ball from her. "Can you fill it up with air again?"

In her hands, the ball inflated slowly and she giggled as it tipped from side to side against her palms. "It tickles!"

John looked up his father, his smile faltering slightly as he saw the expression on Dean's face. "Uh, Dad?"

Dean looked at the ball in Laney's daughter's hands, tight and round and full again, and realised that all six children were looking at him. He schooled his expression into something more reassuring, he hoped, and nodded.

"Has Mom seen what you can, uh, do? Or Uncle Sammy?"

John shook his head. "We wanted to show you first," he said uncertainly.

That had probably seemed like a good idea at the time, Dean thought unhappily. Ellie or even Sam would've taken the display more prosaically than he could. He looked at his son.

"Uh, well you should show them, as soon as possible," he said, trying for a smile. Judging from their expressions, it wasn't a particularly convincing one.

"Look," he added, crouching down to look at John at his son's eye-level. "This stuff … I'm just not used to it, you know? Took me by surprise."

"Is it okay?" John asked worriedly. "That we can do it?"

"Yeah, it's okay, John." He wasn't sure if it was or not, but the fact remained that they could do it, and together, they were more powerful, more controlled than individually. He had no idea what that meant either, only that it reminded him uncomfortably of the mythology of the Seven, that they were far stronger together than apart.

He leaned close to John, dropping a kiss on his hair, and stood up. "Let's find Mom, see what she thinks, okay?"

"Yeah," John agreed, looking around at the other children and nodding. "Marc, find your Dad, and we'll find Mom, and we can show them together."

Dean hid a smile at the take-charge tone in his son's voice, watching as the kids scattered. He wished that Sara and Leah hadn't seen it. He wasn't sure what other hunters would think of the children's abilities. They hadn't told anyone who didn't live here, wasn't a part of them.

* * *

"Well?" He looked at Ellie apprehensively. "What do you think?"

The children had showed Ellie, Sam and Trish the same thing as they'd showed him, the demonstration stopping when the sky had darkened and sleet had begun to fall. Ellie and Trish had given them lunch and sent them upstairs to watch TV as the weather outside worsened. In the big living room, the four of them sat in front of the fire, Sam and Trish on one sofa, Dean and Ellie on the other.

Ellie glanced at Sam and Trish, and shrugged lightly. "Most psychics begin to develop their abilities as young children, then unless they're trained and encouraged, the process stops for a while, re-emerging at puberty. So, from that point of view, it's all pretty normal –"

"This isn't really 'normal', Ellie," Dean said, shaking his head slightly.

Trish smiled at him. "It is, really. I mean it's not common, but it's not something outside of the human race either."

"Anyway," Ellie said, looking at his expression. "Acting together, in meta-concert, that's a bit different. Most children are still quite egocentric at this age and apparently that's the opposite of being able to sublimate the self and let others into your mind." She got up, walking to the log basket beside the fire and tossing another log on. "But our kids have never been very egocentric anyway, too much experience of seeing us working together, maybe. I don't know."

Dean looked at her, frowning. "When do … psychics learn to use that … um, technique … normally?"

"Late teens, early adulthood is the usual time," she said, walking back to the sofa and sitting next to him. "The timing is off, no question. But that might have something to do with what's happening with the firstborn as well."

Sam leaned forward, his brow creasing up. "How?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "It's just that it's come on suddenly, at the wrong age. And last week, none of them could manifest any psychokinetic ability."

She felt Dean's deeply indrawn breath behind her shoulder and sighed inwardly. He was already anxious about something, she thought. Something to do with her and the dream he'd had. Having this dumped on top was not going to help. She wondered if she should keep letting him stew over this stuff, or force the situation. She'd felt the need in him, when he touched her, or kissed her, had noticed him watching her, as if he felt that she was going to disappear if he took his eyes off her for a moment. The irony of his reactions to the psychic abilities of their children was still lost on him, since he hadn't yet accepted that he showed flashes of those abilities from time to time himself, writing them off as instinct or some version of refined experience.

"So whatever's going on, it's escalating?"

She nodded, glancing at Sam for confirmation.

"Yeah. Marc and Laura – we were working on element control last week, I thought it'd be easier with water or fire than with something more solid, but they really didn't have much success with those either," Sam agreed, leaning back and putting his arm around Trish's shoulder.

"You know, Rosie's primary ability was the psychometry," Ellie turned her head to look at Dean. "That she was getting quite skilled at, but none of the more active abilities."

"There was a long split in the skin of that ball," Dean said, looking down at her. "She closed it up, kind of melted the plastic back together. What do you call that?"

Ellie frowned. "Without seeing that for myself, I'm not sure. It could psychokinesis, or pyrokinesis, or creativity, or a combination. Was there heat in the ball when she was doing it?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, I wasn't that close."

"Frank rang before you came over, said he and Adam'll be back tomorrow," Sam said quietly. "He wouldn't say much over the phone but he's found something about the firstborn. Something to do with the bloodlines and the children."

Ellie nodded and leaned back against Dean. "I'll talk to the Watchers tomorrow. Chaz was going to say something, when you were still chasing after the nephilim in the cars, but Baraquiel stopped him – or overrode him. They know something more than what they've told us."

* * *

Candlelight burned steadily around the bedroom, throwing pools of gold over the furniture and the bed, over their skin and hair, leaving indigo shadows where the warm light didn't reach. The bedspread and quilts were bunched at the foot of the bed, cascading off the edge and spilling onto the floor. He was achingly, almost unbearably, aroused, but he couldn't move any faster, couldn't make himself hurry, the deep-seated need to feel everything, taste and smell and see and hear … _everything_, slowing him down and making him tremble uncontrollably as he moved.

He watched her hands close into fists, her indrawn breath harsh and low, and felt another throb reverberate through him, the breath he dragged in whistling in his throat.

Catching her hands, rolling over and drawing her over him, he sat up as she faced him, her mouth soft against his neck, finding the places that reached along his nervous system, that pierced him. He tipped his head forward as another shudder vibrated through him, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close. He needed to be close. _Closer_. Nothing separating them. No division of skin or mind or heart or soul. Closer.

_Much closer_.

She moved her hips, lifting herself until he could feel her dripping on him, his head tipping back, eyes opening wide, watching her, closing involuntarily with a deep groan as she rocked down him, rocked him inside her molten softness, gentle ripples gripping, purring up him. Flashpoint and he didn't want that agonising hot liquid spread of pleasure through him, not yet, his arms pulling her tightly against him, filling himself with her scent, her taste, trying to hold back, to make the closeness that he needed last.

_Closer._

Everything was pulsing in the same time, in time with his heartbeat, with hers, the rush of blood through their bodies, the beat of the song that was singing them. Arousal had been so slow, so delicately incremental, it'd felt like he'd never have to stop … but it was gaining momentum all on its own, and he couldn't hear anything except that beat in his body, couldn't feel anything but the sensations that were seeping, trickling, rushing, roaring through his nerves and muscles, his breath taken in tiny gasps, and Ellie moaned, closing around him, muscles twitching and spasming and clutching along him so tightly he couldn't hold on. He buried his face against her, light-headed, blind and deaf and dumb, her helpless moans vibrating against his jaw and cheekbone, jacking him higher, until he had nothing else left, was wrung out, spent, empty.

His heart was beating at a normal rate again. He could breathe in and out without feeling like each breath was going to be his last. He couldn't let go of her. When she lifted her head slowly and looked at him, he felt himself start to shake, and he couldn't stop it.

"What is it?" she whispered, her arm around him, her hand light against the side of his face.

"I don't want to lose you," he said, knowing it didn't make sense, not knowing what else to say. It was riding him, that fear, he couldn't keep it down, couldn't pretend he couldn't feel it.

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes looking into his, and he realised it felt exactly like when he'd been a kid. His father had never been able to lie to him about what had been out there either, never been able to say unequivocally that it was okay, that nothing would get them, that there was nothing to fear. There _were_ things to fear, a _lot_ of them, and Ellie couldn't pretend any more than he could, couldn't say, _you won't, I'll be fine_. Even if she had, the reassurance would've been so hollow as to be meaningless and they'd told each other they wouldn't waste time, their time, with platitudes and things that weren't true.

"Tell me about the dream," she said instead, and he closed his eyes.

"At first it was just images … memories, you know?" he said slowly. "Then it was images but not the things I'd seen, just the things I'd imagined. Every time you disappeared, or died, or were near death, or were gone."

She nodded slightly. "Did it seem … structured, Dean? Linear?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. "Yeah, I guess. I think they came in the right order, I mean chronologically. How'd you know that?"

"I don't think that was a dream," she said. "I think that someone was trying to send you a message."

He shook his head. "When Cas and Anna walked into my dreams, they were – it was like this, just sitting there talking to them."

She smiled a little. "They weren't trying to manipulate you, though, were they?"

"No," he said. Well, Anna had been, but he hadn't realised it at the time. "Not really. They just had information and they couldn't get through any other way. You think this is Michael? Trying to get me to stay away or something?"

"Trying to make you think that you'll lose what's important to you if you don't, maybe."

He felt a shiver run down his spine. The archangel had managed to bullseye that, he thought wearily. "So it wasn't – it was made up? What I saw?"

"I don't know," Ellie tipped her head forward, her cheek lying against his. "Enough truth to add verisimilitude? Enough threat to make you think twice about getting involved? Make it seem like a sure thing, this time?"

He exhaled. "I thought – I thought I was losing it," he admitted. "It's always there, you know, in the back of my mind. But this was loud, in my thoughts all the fucking time."

She nodded. "Yeah, I saw."

He smiled at the rueful tone in her voice. "Scary?"

She laughed softly against his neck. "Not really, just … hard to understand. This is something we've faced, dealt with. It's always a possibility, there's no getting around that, but we don't give it much air time."

No, they didn't. He'd worked his ass off to make sure that those thoughts didn't get much oxygen, period. The knowledge that the emotions that had been flogging him had been stirred up from the outside, weren't escalating on their own inside of him, removed a huge weight. He rested his cheek against her shoulder and dragged in a deep breath, letting it out and feeling the twanging tension dissolve. Whoever had done it, and he thought that the Vegas money was on Michael, had known him well enough to know what would make him panic, make him stop thinking and act on instinct. He deliberately put aside those thoughts, letting his mind swim in the memories of the last couple of hours instead.

"Not to, uh, get off track, or sound unromantic, but uh, a little anxiety makes for some interesting loving," he said softly. He felt her shake slightly in his arms, realised she was laughing silently.

"What?"

* * *

Sleet rattled against the glass of the windows, the leaden skies filled the kitchen with a dull light, and Ellie flicked on the lights to brighten the room a little as she carried Frank's coffee from the counter to the table, sitting down opposite him.

"What did you find?"

"Ah," Frank said, sipping his coffee and looking from her to Dean. "To begin with, those texts we went down there for were crap, I'm not sure they were originals."

"Frank," Dean said warningly. Frank sighed and shrugged, glancing at Adam.

"Alright. The info we found that was worth the trip was in a Greek bible, one of the early untranslated versions. Probably heretical, actually," he said. "It referred to the book of Enoch, which itself is pretty much useless, and to another, earlier work, author unknown. Took a bit of tracking down, but we found a copy of that one in San Francisco, specialist bookstore down in Market –"

"Frank, the book?" Ellie interrupted impatiently.

"You can read it yourselves, we brought it along, but the gist was that all of the nine original bloodlines held a part of a key, a key to Heaven," he continued, unperturbed.

"All nine?"

He nodded. "The Circle was for the strongest, not necessarily the firstborn. It's just that at the time, the firstborn were the strongest, for some reason. But none of them ever had children of their own."

Ellie's eyes widened a little. "Dammit, that's right."

"Why is that important?" Dean looked at her.

"Because all the lines, all the descendants of the lines of the Watchers come from the secondborn and later generations, not from those seven," she said slowly, staring at Frank. "How does that affect the power?"

"According to the text, the generations were diluted in power, the longer the line extended, until they reached a certain point – and that's a destiny thing, by the way, not any natural genetic order kind of thing, because what's passed along in an angelic sense isn't really genetic – and then they became stronger again."

"So Marc and Laura and Adrienne –," Trish said.

"And John and Rosie – they're the first generation that were really strong again?" Ellie finished the sentence.

"No. Dean and Sam – and you – and –" He looked over at Tricia. "- you, were the first generation that were really strong again, strong enough to replace the children that were lost, I think. I don't know if your children are stronger, although the manifestation of the psychic abilities does seem to speak to that."

"We're not – there's nothing powerful about me and Sam," Dean protested uneasily, his gaze shifting from Frank to Ellie.

Frank raised an eyebrow. "When Sam was born, he was so powerful in Azazel's line that the demon nurtured and guided him through the first twenty-two years of his life."

He looked at Sam. "And you manifested the psychic abilities, didn't you?"

"Not until I was an adult," Sam said, looking at Dean. "Not like our kids."

"Probably because the firstborn were scattered across the planet when you were growing up, Azazel keeping them busy on different tasks that they didn't even know they were doing for him," Frank said caustically. "This time, this last year, has been the first time all the firstborn have been together in over two thousand years. And that being together changes something, sets off another destiny switch – and accelerates the development of the generation that is closest to them in strength."

"How do you know that?"

"It's in the text. I don't know who wrote this, and some of it is vague, unless you have the background information but it's all there. Azazel went off the rails when his daughter was executed," Frank said, gesturing to the book that Adam held. "He knew all of this, he fell with his Grace, with God's blessing, just like the others did, and was committed to the evolution of the human race until the Council made the choice."

"Now, you and Adam," he added, looking at Dean. "You're both from Araquiel's line, which leaves you out of the picture. Sam, and Ellie, though … and all of the children … that's a different matter."

Dean looked at Ellie. Perhaps Michael's warning had more truth in it than he'd realised. He squashed the flutter of anxiety that rose with the thought, turning as Rudy came into the kitchen, followed by Carl, Laney and Greg and Baraquiel.

"How was LA, Frank?" Laney looked at him and sat down next to Ellie. "You having a pow-wow without us now?"

"Smoggy. Overcrowded. Noisy," Frank muttered, picking up his coffee and drinking.

"Just catching up on the lore," Ellie said, with a careless shrug. "Apparently all the lines held a part of the key that's needed by the firstborn to open the doorway to Heaven," she added, looking pointedly at Baraquiel.

The Watcher sat down next to Adam and sighed. "Ellie, without the key from Amaros and Azazel, they cannot open the doorway."

"Then how are you going open it to let them see that they were wrong when Michael shows up?" Sam frowned at him.

"Iophiel can use Gabriel's trumpet to open it from this plane, which I hope he will once he and Michael have been … convinced sufficiently to see the sense of it," Baraquiel explained patiently. He turned back to Ellie. "I haven't been keeping this from you out of spite, Ellie. There was no reason to worry about it."

"Except that it seems that Ellie holds a part of that key, and so does Sam. And our children," Trish said accusingly, staring at him.

"The firstborn didn't know it was Araquiel who founded the Winchester line," Baraquiel argued mildly.

"No, but they do now," Dean said, gesturing around the table. "Cas said that Maluch told him they knew that it was Ellie and the kids they needed, not me."

"And now they are safely contained," the Watcher countered. "And they will remain so."

Dean exhaled gustily, looking away. The Watcher had obviously prepared for this conversation. He could see that they might not want all their secrets revealed, the hunters didn't tell them everything either, but this one had been kind of central to the job in hand.

"It's a seven-hour drive down to Lovelock," Sam said, his gaze moving from Dean to Baraquiel. "When do you want to go?"

"At noon," Baraquiel replied, looking to Dean for confirmation.

"Yeah, we'll sack out in the town, go to the house early in the morning," Dean agreed, looking at his watch. He glanced around the table at the hunters, then let his gaze rest on the Watcher. "I know this is all supposed to be over now, but we're packing for the worst case scenario, just in case."

Sam and Adam nodded, Laney glancing at Greg and nodding as well. Baraquiel looked around at the determination on their faces. They'd had too many close calls with the firstborn nephilim to even consider that things would go smoothly just because the archangels would be there.

"All right. But you are primarily there as witnesses," he said to Dean quietly. "We have the leverage over Michael and it will work."

"What leverage?" Ellie asked, her voice equally quiet. "What exactly is going to make Michael agree to your idea?"

"His Father's commands, Ellie," Baraquiel answered. "Scribed by Mattara. Michael and Iophiel will have no choice but to obey."

"Can we see it?" Frank leaned across the table, looking at the Watcher.

"You will not be able to transcribe it for your database, Frank," Baraquiel said gently. "But yes."

He reached into his jacket, drawing out something heavy and small and rectangular, wrapped in layers of chamois and silk. Setting it on the table, he carefully unfolded the materials that covered the stone tablet, leaning back as the hunters all leaned forward.

The Word of God. Apparently, Dean thought. The writing – or symbols – engraved into the stone were nothing like he'd ever seen, not Enochian, at least not the little he knew of it. They shimmered and blurred as he tried to focus harder on them and he looked away after a moment, feeling a headache starting between his eyes.

Laney reached out a finger to touch the stone and Baraquiel's voice was loud in the silence, his hand flashing up to stop her.

"No! You may not touch it."

She withdrew her hand, looking at him in surprise. "Sorry, just curious."

"Yeah, well, darlin' look at what that did to the cat," Greg said warily, looking at the Watcher. "We'll leave it well enough alone."

Frank pulled down his glasses, rubbing at the corners of his eyes and replacing them. Baraquiel watched the gesture with a faint smile.

"You cannot read it, Frank. It will begin to hurt your mind if you attempt to memorise it."

"Why?"

"Because it was not meant for humans," the Watcher said simply. "Even the seraphim, even the archangels, can only glimpse the meanings, not study them."

He wrapped the stone up again, tucking it back into his inside jacket pocket and looked around with a deep sigh. "The entity you refer to as God, that we know as our Father … He is not of you or us. You were not made in His image, but from a minute fraction of His Being. There are no meeting places between you and He, except in the part of you that you call your souls. And even there, the communication is limited."

"So all the prophets and visionaries and disciples – who were they getting their info from?" Rudy looked at the Watcher guardedly.

"From us, mostly. From the seraphim from time to time. From the Voice of God in very special cases."

"Like Moses?" Frank looked at him. "The burning bush was Mattara?"

"Just so," Baraquiel inclined his head and got to his feet. "I'll see you at noon."

There was a silence around the kitchen table for a moment after he'd left. Laney looked at Ellie, one brow raised questioningly.

"Will Michael respect that thing?"

Ellie shrugged. "He should. He was the most obedient of the arcs, the most powerful."

"Oh yeah, that was something else we found out and meant to tell you," Frank said, glancing apologetically at Laney. "In this book, it says that Amaros was the number-one son of God, back before he Fell. So he's Michael's big brother."

Ellie rubbed her forehead with the inside of her wrist. "Lucifer said something about that, that Amaros had been more powerful than Michael."

"I don't know how that affects anything," Frank said with a shrug. "Just thought it was an interesting piece of information."

She smiled at him wryly. "Okay."

* * *

Dean shut the trunk of the Impala as Adam stood on the porch with Ellie.

"I'll watch his back," he said, with an awkward smile, aware that it might sound a bit ridiculous.

"Thanks," she said, looking at him seriously. "And make sure he watches yours."

His answering smile was more natural and he walked down the steps as Dean walked up them, getting into the back seat. Sam was bringing Trish and the kids up, they would stay together in the house until it was over.

She looked up at Dean as he stopped in front of her, raising his hand to push back a stray strand of hair absently from her forehead.

"Piece of cake, right?" he said, looking into her eyes. She nodded, mouth lifting in a half-smile.

"Easy as pie."

He bent his head and kissed her, pulling her close, feeling her arms slip around his neck. He'd said goodbye to the kids already, leaving them curled up in various chairs in the big playroom upstairs, watching a movie. Behind him, he heard Sam's car pull up behind the black car and the excited voices of Marc and Laura as they got closer.

"Don't be long," Ellie said softly as he broke the kiss. He caught her hand, and kissed the palm, shaking his head.

"Be just a little while," he promised.

For a second, he just looked at her, memorising every detail he could, then he turned around as Trish came up the steps, holding Adrienne, and kissed her cheek in passing, going down to the Impala as Sam got into the passenger side.

Trish stopped beside Ellie and they watched the car pull slowly out of the drive, tyres kicking back gravel as they passed through the gate and onto the road. Behind them, Rudy and Carl followed in Carl's pickup, brought back from Norridgewock by Katherine, and Laney and Greg trundled out after them in her black truck, the rumbling engines echoing from the rising hillside for a few minutes then fading away.

Trish turned for the door and Ellie followed her inside, closing and locking it behind her. Twist, Steve and Red would be over by dinner time, the three men would be staying in the house, taking shifts watching over them.

"Have you heard from Soleil?" Trish asked as she walked down the hall to the living room, Marc and Laura having already disappeared upstairs to join the other kids.

"Callie's improving," Ellie said, lengthening her stride to catch up with the taller woman. "She hopes that she'll be able to have the second operation at the end of the week, and then it'll be about another week before she can take her home."

"Poor girl."

Ellie nodded. Callie's injuries hadn't even been from a fight. Just another diversion by the nephilim to slow the hunters following them. The psychological injuries would be harder to heal than the physical ones.

"Dwight and Kath gone back to stay with them?"

"Yeah, they'll drive them home, when Callie's ready," Ellie said, building up the fire on the hearth and dropping onto the long sofa. She felt anxious but she couldn't work out why. Baraquiel would have his witnesses, eight hunters, the four Watchers and three nephilim. It should be enough to dissuade Michael from doing anything too impulsive.

"Why did Rudy stay on here, it's not really his fight, is it?" Trish settled Adrienne on the soft rug with a basket of toys that Ellie kept for her niece and little Henry when they came to visit. Both women watched for a moment as Adrienne held out both hands and several of the soft toys rose obediently in the air, the little girl laughing as she clapped her hands and they fell to the floor. Neither felt uncomfortable by the display, but both recognised that Adrienne was going to be difficult to train in her gifts. Her power grew daily and she hadn't reached the Terrible Twos quite yet. When she exercised her will against those of her parents and her siblings, it would be a tricky exercise to avoid confrontations.

"He told Dean that his father is a Watcher. Didn't say which one though. So, I guess it is his fight, in one way," Ellie answered belatedly, leaning back against the corner of the sofa.

"A Watcher? Didn't Baraquiel know which one?"

"We don't have photographs of the Watchers, they seem to screw up the cameras when you try to take them, and Rudy didn't want to talk about it," she said. "He hated angels and their children even when I first met him. It doesn't seem to have improved."

"He does have red hair," Trish noted, flicking a look at Ellie.

She smiled at the reference. "A lot of the Watchers do. Baraquiel and Amaros, Gadriel did as well, Talya's his daughter."

"God, I really don't want Sam to have to tell Rudy that he killed his father," Trish said, paling slightly as she remembered the battle in Wyoming that had started with her husband pulling Samuel Colt's gun from his belt and shooting the leader of the Others.

"No," Ellie sighed. "I don't think it'll come up. Rudy's not interested."

Trish nodded, looking down at Adrienne again. "Ellie, do you think … if the firstborn leave, if they're allowed to return to Heaven –" She looked up at the other woman. "–will all these abilities, fade away? Disappear?"

Ellie watched Adrienne for a moment. "I don't think so, Trish. They might have gone from latent to operant because the firstborn came together, but I don't think that's controlling them now."

* * *

_**US-20 E, Oregon**_

Dean drove east, the stereo playing softly in the car, Sam and Adam discussing something or other over the back of the seat between them. He wondered why Michael – or any of the angels for that matter – would want him to stay out of this. He didn't think that Baraquiel's insistence that witnesses would make the archangel more careful of what he did held that much water. He'd met the archangel on a few occasions and Michael had only bowed to another's will when he'd had absolutely no other choice.

Adam laughed from the back seat and Dean flicked a look back at his brothers, the corner of his mouth tugging in a very slight smile as he saw the similarities amidst all the differences between them. His brothers. Now there was another freaky thought, to go along with all the others. He had more family now than he'd ever had in his life … wife and kids, brothers, sister-in-law and nieces and nephew, cousins. The last time he'd acquired a bunch of family in a hurry, he hadn't trusted it, hadn't trusted them. And in that case, he'd been right not to. The family he had now … he trusted them all. It was a feeling he couldn't take out and look at too often, making him wonder about God and destiny and all the things that had had to happen for it to be possible. But it filled him, filled every empty space inside.

He pulled off at Burns, stopping at the gas station, filling up and grabbing drinks, swapping with Sam. Adam's brows shot up as Dean opened the back door, gesturing over the roof to the passenger front door for his half-brother.

"You sure?" Adam asked, glancing at Sam. Dean smiled.

"Yeah, I didn't get much sleep last night, I'll stretch out and catch some. Wake me at Winnemucca." He got into the back seat and stretched out, the car's generous six foot interior width making it perfect for him. Less so for Sam, of course. But it wasn't Sammy's car. He rolled up the blanket they kept in the back seat and tucked it under his head, closing his eyes.

Sam slid into the driver's seat and started the car, and Adam got in on the passenger side, both doors closing at the same time. He could feel both of their gazes resting on him for a long moment as the engine rumbled, then the car started moving and he let his thoughts go.

* * *

_**Lovelock, Nevada**_

The Cadillac Inn was very surprised to have fifteen people come in and book rooms in one night.

Fiona Burgess, trainee manager, was on her own for the first time since she'd started working for the motel last week, and she watched nervously as they pulled in out front of the office, car after car, coming inside in two's and three's, asking for single kings, double queens. Half the things she'd learned over the last week were forgotten as she sorted through keys, credit cards and cash. It'd had been a very quiet night until they'd arrived, the motel was almost empty and she managed to find them a block of rooms together, at the back of the motel.

Convention, the first couple had said, taking the keys for a single king and driving round the back in a big black truck. Convention, the tall, red-haired man with the face of an angel had told her, taking keys for four queens and two single kings, the black four-wheel drive rumbling around the back followed by the grey one. Convention, the dark-haired man had said, dark green eyes glinting with amusement as he picked up keys for three single kings and a double queen, the deeply throbbing engine of a black sedan leading the pair of pickups around the back.

Ten rooms gone in the space of twenty-five minutes. She carefully wrote down all the details and tucked the credit card receipts into the till, not realising until she sat down that she'd missed her favourite TV show entirely.

* * *

Dean opened the trunk, passing a couple of the khaki duffle bags to Sam and Adam and taking the black canvas bag out for himself. He closed the trunk and locked the car and walked to the blue-painted door of his room, unlocking it and looking around. For once, they'd managed to find a motel without a penchant for motif décor. The walls and ceiling were white, the carpet a flecked beige, the bedspread that covered the king-sized bed was a plain dark blue. No cowboys, not even Cadillacs, surprisingly. No disco balls or tulips or cattle horns or sailing ships or any of the thousands of themes he'd been forced to look at it over the years. Dumping the gear bag on the end of the bed, he unzipped it and pulled out the weapons and ammunition it carried, checking over each piece and making sure they were clean and loaded and safetied. The only thing that could kill an angel was an angel sword. He had three, acquired in the years when Heaven was openly in civil war and saved for a special occasion. Like this one.

There was a sharp knock on the door and he walked to it, opening it to see Sam and Adam standing there.

"There's a restaurant attached to this place," Sam said, gesturing over his shoulder. "You want to get something to eat? The others have already headed over there."

Dean nodded. "I'll meet you there."

He closed the door as they left and finished packing away his ordnance. The nerves of the back of his neck were prickling, very faintly. Going to a showdown between archangels and fallen angels and the seven who'd caused them so much trouble and pain over the last year was a good enough reason for it, he guessed. He pulled out his cell anyway, dialling home and listening to it ring. Ellie picked up after the second ring.

"_Hey, everything okay?"_ Her voice was low and he closed his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed, wishing like hell he was there.

"Yeah, just got to Lovelock," he said.

"_Feeling like you're heading into the Last Supper?"_

He smiled. It was exactly how he felt and he hadn't been able to nail it so precisely for himself. "Yeah, pretty much."

"_Any more bad feelings?"_

"No. Not really," he said, his brows drawing together a little. "You?"

"_Formless anxiety, mostly,"_ she said. _"Nothing concrete."_

"No, me either."

"_Just … watch everyone tomorrow, Dean."_ He could hear the edge in her voice now.

"I will."

"_I mean it,"_ she insisted.

"I know." He dragged in a deep breath. Talking to her made him feel better and worse at the same time. "I gotta go, Ellie. I'll see you tomorrow night, okay?"

"_Yeah. Yes. Okay."_

In the silences between the words there were all the things they felt but didn't want to say. Couldn't say. It was asking for trouble. And they both knew them anyway. Ellie hung up and Dean looked at his phone, letting out his breath.

He stood up and put the cell back in his pocket, grabbing the keys and his wallet and turning off the overhead light, leaving the bedside lamp on. He closed and locked the door and crossed the parking lot to the restaurant. Did what they did create these feelings of longing and ache and wanting nothing more than to get in the car and go home? Or would he feel the same way, working a nine-to-five job as a grease-monkey in Ordinaryville? Was it just the way it was, between them?

Pulling the door to the restaurant open, he frowned as he noticed the Watchers sitting at a small table on their own, away from the hunters. Idan, Tagi and Sima were at the big table, listening and talking and eating, confident of their inclusion in the group, each of them experienced now with their business. Perhaps that's why Baraquiel had chosen to isolate himself and his peers. No matter what happened tomorrow, the Watchers were the fathers of the firstborn. And the hunters had been hunting them for a while now. Laney was still angry about Eddie, he knew. And Rudy had his own reasons for not trusting them. He nodded to Sam as he walked to the larger table, pulling out a chair and sitting down between Adam and Laney.

Laney leaned close to him. "The Watchers too good to eat with us grunts?"

He looked at her sharply. "Don't, okay? We're not here to fight each other. Tomorrow, they might see their kids killed. Don't blame them for not wanting to hear you talking about doing just that."

She pulled away as if he'd slapped her, and he rubbed his hand over his face tiredly. That'd come out a bit stronger than he'd intended.

"Sorry," he said, watching her face. "I - I just don't want any misunderstandings."

Laney nodded and turned away. He shifted his gaze over her head to Greg. The older man lifted a brow slightly, one eye closing in acknowledgement. Greg was good for Laney, a calming influence on her volatile emotions, he thought. She was a person who did everything at full-throttle, and while that worked for a lot of things, it could backfire on occasion as well. He'd spent a few days with her after that crazy haunting in Michigan, and he'd left her earlier than he'd planned because he'd needed quiet and she couldn't give him that.

Looking over at the Watcher's table, he knew that Ellie would've understood this. Would've gone over to them and spoken to them, would've made Laney understand, and Rudy understand, that tomorrow would be testing the fallen in a way they hadn't been tested in a long time. Testing their commitment to their vows over their feelings for their families.

He looked up as a waitress appeared beside him and pushed aside his thoughts, ordering his food and a beer.

* * *

They parked the cars nose out, in a staggered line close to the road, the drive and gravelled turnaround filled with long, thin shadows stretched out to the west. Castiel let them in, the angel's face stiff with tension as he greeted the Watchers and nodded to the hunters.

In the living room, the wall of east-facing French doors let in the pale, early sunshine, bleaching out the fire that ringed the two groups of nephilim. Dean looked at them carefully as he came in. Collectively, they were obviously not human. Tall and perfectly formed, uniformly beautiful in a way that didn't really exist in the human race, with its asymmetrical features and flaws, the firstborn stared back, their fear hidden behind a façade of indifference.

The room was very crowded when everyone was inside, hunters lining the walls, the Watchers closer to the circles, the angel facing east, head bowed in prayer.

"You're going to kill us?" Chuma said to his father, his lip curled up in a sneer that didn't quite cover the fear in the dark eyes.

Chazaquiel shook his head. "No, we're not."

Baraquiel stepped forward, past him. "We hope to give you what you want, Chuma," he said, looking around at them, his gaze resting on Idra for a moment. "A doorway to Heaven."

Idra looked at his father and snorted in disbelief. "You're lying."

The red-haired Watcher shook his head. "The Council was wrong. We were wrong, to think that what we did could change the lines of Destiny. We couldn't foresee clearly enough."

"So after all we've done, you're just going to open the way and let us go?" Maluch's voice was sharp. "How? Why?"

"Iophiel can open the way," Shamsiel said quietly. "As to why … you want to see where you came from, where we came from. That's understandable. I do not think you'll like it, but if you'd come to us from the first, we could have shown you and saved the bloodshed and suffering you've caused."

"We didn't cause it, Father," Lazio said bitterly. "It wasn't by our choice."

Baraquiel looked at the nephilim tiredly. "It was your choice, Lazio. You chose to attempt to regain Heaven. Chose your path to that end. Do not pretend that no responsibility touches you, no blame falls on you, or you won't be able to enter Heaven though the door stands widely open."

Lazio dropped his gaze, turning away. Maluch looked at the Watcher with narrowed eyes.

"So that is how you intend to defeat our aim? Offer the door and watch as we are banned from entrance?"

"Every soul is admitted to Heaven if they have repented of their sins and asked for forgiveness, Maluch," Sariel said. "You have souls. All you need to do is repent and ask for absolution and you will be able to enter."

Maluch scowled at him.

Watching them, Dean wondered which of the seven would not be able to do that. Truly repent of what they'd done. He hadn't considered the necessary requirements for what they wanted before. Like them, he realised, he'd viewed their quest in a military sense. But of course Heaven had other security measures.

"And if we don't? Repent of our sins and ask for forgiveness?" Chasina looked at her father.

"Then you will stand trapped between the planes until the end of time," Sariel answered, looking at his daughter pityingly. She stared back at him.

"Why didn't you tell us? About the sacrifice, about the Council, about all of it?"

Sariel glanced at Baraquiel uncomfortably. "It was decided by all of us, Chasina. We are the Council. We thought that the doorway had been closed forever, for us. And for you."

"Your decisions changed the world, father," Idra said angrily.

Baraquiel nodded. "Yes. At the time, the risk was deemed to be acceptable. None of us saw all the consequences."

_Azazel_, Dean thought suddenly. They were talking about Yellow Eyes. The decision that the Watchers had made had changed the world. Had changed the fallen angel and driven him on a quest to bring about the suffering and ruination that he'd felt to the entire world. Raising his army. Raising Lucifer. He drew in a deep breath.

Castiel raised his head and turned around, haloed by the sunshine behind him. "Michael comes."

At first, it seemed like the sunlight had gotten stronger, flooding in through the French doors and filling the room with the reflections from the pale walls and floor and ceiling. Then the colour of the light changed.

The hunters and nephilim turned away from the brightening glow beside the angel, throwing their arms over their faces and screwing their eyes shut as tightly as possible. Even through that protection, the light kept strengthening, filling the room fiercely, accompanied by a sound that wasn't quite in the range of human senses but above them, piercing their minds and oscillating on a frequency that made teeth and bones ache sharply. Then it was gone. The light was fading away and Dean lowered his arm, squinting into the glow surrounding Castiel, his breath catching as he made out the figures standing to either side of the angel.

He'd seen the archangel in his brother, in the Cage on the Ninth Level of Hell. Adam's flesh and bones had barely been able to contain the essence of Michael, he'd been taller, broader, his features altered subtly to angelic perfection, his irises deepened in colour. In Kansas, and in Rome, the angel had not worn a vessel, had been in what Cas had explained was a construct, a representation of what the angel looked like within the boundaries and framework of the earthly plane. He recognised the construct standing in front of him now. Tall and broad-shouldered, immense wings folded in tight behind him, the rows of feathers ranging from pearl to silver as they progressed down the length of the leading edge. Long, black hair and unearthly blue eyes. The face of an angel, with its wide cheekbones and sculpted features, framed by a short-cut beard. He watched the archangel's gaze move around the room, stopping on him for a moment, the morning-glory eyes narrowing.

Disappointed that he hadn't been scared off, Dean wondered? That momentary look confirmed Ellie's theory, at least, he thought. The arc had been fucking around in his head, trying to make him back off. He felt a flash of anger and damped it down.

On Castiel's left, another archangel stood, his gaze moving more slowly around the room, a golden trumpet of a simple, archaic design held in one hand, the other resting lightly on the hilt of the sword belted at his hip. Iophiel, Dean guessed, the archangel that had taken over as the Angel of Death after Gabriel had been killed by Lucifer. He was also tall and broad, his colouring almost entirely opposite to Michael, silver-white hair and very dark eyes, alabaster skin contrasted against the dark wings that were folded behind him, the feathers black along the edges, shading to a deep, smoke grey at the ends.

"The abominations who want to enter Heaven." Michael's voice was deep and mellifluous, with an odd drawling inflection that flavoured every word with languid amusement.

He looked at Dean. "And the Winchesters. Again. I would've thought you'd be in that nice little house up the mountain from Bend, looking after your family, Dean, keeping them safe?"

Dean felt a stab of anger at the angel's careless reference to his home, hiding it as he stared at Michael. "Don't you have better things to do than screw around in people's dreams?"

"I do," Michael took a step forward. "I was hoping you would stay out of this."

"I like to see the job get done," Dean said, lifting a shoulder in a small shrug. "And you already know that Ellie isn't a soft target, don't you?"

The archangel's expression turned to a scowl. "Indeed."

He turned away and looked at Baraquiel coldly. "Your children are an affront to our Father's Will, Baraquiel."

The Watcher drew the tablet from his pocket, peeling off the cloth wrappings and handing the stone to Michael. "Our Father thought differently, Michael."

Taking the stone gingerly, Michael looked down at it, his eyes on the writing. Iophiel walked up beside him, looking at the tablet, then turning to look at Baraquiel.

"Where did you get this?" he said, the light tenor of his voice strained with emotion.

"From me."

The voice, a butter-smooth baritone a shade deeper than Michaels, came from the hall, and everyone in the room turned to look at the tall Watcher who stood there, long, copper-coloured hair drawn back, smiling pleasantly at the archangels. Behind him, another Watcher, tall and dark-haired, stood.

"Amaros," Michael said softly, looking at his brother. "Betraying us again?"

Amaros' smile widened as he walked into the room, past the Watchers and hunters. "Michael, I've never betrayed Heaven, or you."

"Leaving us was a betrayal," Michael ground out, staring at him.

"We did what we were asked to do," the dark-haired Watcher said quietly, following Amaros. "We followed our orders, Michael."

"You Fell, Araquiel!" Iophiel said accusingly, anger and fear mingled in his voice. "You Fell and brought the First War upon us."

"The First War was not the result of our Falling, but of the arrogance of Lucifer – and of the Eighth Choir," Baraquiel countered evenly. "You cannot rewrite history to suit yourselves."

Michael ignored him, staring at Amaros. "You might have been the most powerful once, brother, but no longer."

"Michael, will you go against our Father's command?" Amaros asked, looking down at the tablet in the archangel's hand. "Is that what you've become? So rent by jealousy that you can't obey now?"

Dean saw Michael's finger tighten on the stone, bones and tendons standing out, and his hand slid beneath his jacket, flicking a look at Sam and Adam who stood on the other side of the room. Sam's eyes met his and his brother gave a small nod, his hand reaching for the angel sword in his jacket.

If Michael was going to fight, then the Watchers would have backup, Dean thought.

"It is not jealousy I feel, Amaros, but the righteous anger of our Father, to smite the ungodly, the abominations," Michael snapped.

"Our Father gave his Blessing to us, Michael, to us and our children to help humanity. You hold it in your hand. It was an order and we obeyed it, gladly, willingly," Amaros spoke softly, seeing the hair-trigger tension in his brother, the rage and fear that filled him.

For a moment, Dean thought the Watcher might've gotten through to the archangel. Michael looked down at the stone tablet in his hand and his shoulders slumped.

Then his head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Then He left! And you left! And Lucifer defied me!"

He flung the tablet down and it hit the tiled floor, smashing into pieces. The earthly plane flexed sickeningly, the room, the air, the light bulging in and out.

"Kill them!" Michael screamed at Iophiel, drawing his sword and lunging for his older brother. Iophiel raised his hand and the fires surrounding the nephilim vanished, the angel who wore the mantle of Death spinning around and drawing his sword as he charged for Kitra, standing closest to the edge, his sword plunging through her chest, burning with a brilliant argentine light as it destroyed her heart.

Dean yanked the angel sword from his jacket, as Amaros drew his own, the Watcher's blade meeting Michael's with a high-pitched shriek and an explosion of light.

The hunters pulled out their weapons, shooting continuously at the firstborn as the room filled with light and shadow, with the clash of metal and the thunder of gunfire. Laney dodged Idra but couldn't avoid Maluch in time, the nephilim picking her up as she fired into his chest at point-blank range, and throwing her into the ceiling, her neck snapping instantly with the impact. Behind her, Greg screamed, emptying a clip into Maluch as he ran for him, not seeing Lazio appear beside him, Shamsiel's son raising the submachine gun he carried and pulling the trigger. The bullets stitched a line of black holes through Laney's partner, bringing him down, his open eyes glazing before he'd hit the ground.

Sam and Adam swung the angel swords as they ran for the leader of the firstborn, Sam driving the point through Maluch's side, desperately angling it upward as the nephilim turned for him. Maluch threw him across the room and through the French doors, sweeping a hand on the turn, hitting Adam's side as he fought with Chuma, the force and strength of it lifting and throwing him into Charlie and Carl.

Dean came up behind Maluch, thrusting the tip of the sword into the nephilim's ribs, ducking as the blow missed the heart by an inch, and Maluch spun around, pulling the sword from his grip with the speed of the turn, his arm hitting him like a sledgehammer and sending him into the wall. Rudy, Carl and Charlie were firing at Idra, Baraquiel's son down on his knees as the bullets riddled his body, then Chuma and Lazio turned to them, and they scattered and rolled as the submachine gun sprayed its rounds over them.

"To me," Maluch bellowed and the firstborn ran. Iophiel leapt across the body of Kitra and thrust his sword into the back of Reuma as she tried to reach the others. She fell in front of him as the five nephilim joined hands.

The room shuddered with the force of the concussion, the outward blast throwing everyone to the floor as the nephilim disappeared and the air rushed to fill the spaces where they'd been with a crack like thunder.

Another flash of light, purest white, strobed the room and Michael and Iophiel vanished. Dean rolled to his feet, blinking as he looked around. Michael, Iophiel and Cas were gone. On the wall, dark red blood dripped from the sigil that had been drawn, a handprint visible in the blood in the centre. Cas had banished them all, he realised.

Turning around, he saw his brothers, Adam lying against the wall, Sam on the paved patio beyond the shattered glass doors. He hurried to them, relieved when he felt Sam's pulse beating strongly, saw Adam's chest rising and falling. He rolled Sam over gently, grimacing as he pulled out the long spike of glass sticking out from his brother's back. Sam's arm fell loosely as he moved him back, and he realised that the bone had been broken. Adam had a long shallow cut along his scalp, and a hole in his leg, outside through and through, possibly a stray when the room had been filled with them. He pulled off his jacket and shirt, ripping the sleeve off and tying it tightly around the hole in Adam's leg, then leaned forward, his ear pressed against Sam's chest, listening for the tell-tale gurgling in his lungs, letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn't hear it.

"Oh shit, no."

He looked around, seeing Carl kneeling beside Laney, his fingers resting against her neck. Carl looked up at him, shaking his head.

"Can you heal them?" Dean looked at Amaros. "Bring them back?"

Amaros shook his head regretfully. "We can heal, but not bring back the dead, Dean."

"Where are the firstborn?" He looked around at the Watchers. Baraquiel and Chazaquiel were both bleeding freely from wounds. Between them, on the floor, Shamsiel lay unmoving. "How could they get out when that arc had killed two of them?"

Araquiel knelt beside the body of Reuma. His daughter was dead, the archangel's sword had pierced her heart and destroyed it. He lifted her hand, looking at the fresh knotted scar that ran up from the palm onto her wrist. "They formed a blood bond, giving each other the strength of the Seven, even if all were not there."

"So they're full-blood angel strong now?"

"Stronger even than that," Amaros said, resting his hand on Araquiel's shoulder as the Watcher leaned forward and closed Reuma's eyes.

"How much stronger?" Dean asked, sure he didn't want to know the answer.

"I don't know," Amaros answered, moving around the room to look at the others. He touched the wounds of Baraquiel, the bleeding slowing and stopping, the flesh drawing together. It was not the same as the touch of an angel who could still draw on the power of Heaven. The wounds were deep and would take time to heal properly. It would keep them alive though.

"Dean, Greg's gone too," Rudy said, closing the man's eyes as he got to his feet.

Sara and Leah, Dean thought, staring at the dead man. Someone would have to take care of them. He pushed the thought back. He couldn't think of what he had to do, looking at the dead.

"Where'd they go?" Dean asked again, looking at Baraquiel, his uneasiness growing, the prickle in the nerves at the back of his neck beginning.

"They have their plan, Dean. They will have gone to get what they need." The Watcher winced as he got to his feet.

"Home?" Dean stared at him.

"They still need the bloodlines of Amaros and Azazel," Araquiel stood up and looked at him. "And now they will also need my descendents and Penemue's," he added, gesturing at the bodies of the nephilim on the floor.

"That's the kids," Dean muttered, half to himself. He looked around. "Rudy, you're coming with me. Carl, you and Charlie, stay here with the Watchers, get everyone healed up –" He glanced at Amaros, who nodded. "Take care of them and bring 'em back when they can travel."

He turned away and started to run as he hit the hallway. If the firstborn could teleport, he was going to be too late anyway, way too late. He couldn't think of that, not now. He heard the crunch of Rudy's boots on the gravel behind him, and threw himself into the Impala, starting the engine and pulling out as Rudy closed the passenger door.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon**_

The black car roared up the road, rocks clanging against the bash plates underneath, spat out at speed by the tyres as Dean swung the car through the gates at the end. He killed the engine and got out, slowing slightly as he saw the front door open, Sam's car gone, legs lying still in the hallway.

"Would they still be here?" Rudy whispered as he followed him up the porch steps.

"I doubt it," Dean said, gesturing behind him. "They took Sam's car."

He looked down at Red, who lay sprawled across the floor next to the front door. His face and neck were half-covered in blood. Dean knelt beside him, ignoring the sledging of his heart against his ribs as he pressed two fingers against the side of the man's neck. A pulse beat there strongly, and he let out the breath he'd been holding. Looking more closely at the blood, he could see it'd come from Red's eyes, from his nose and ears. He thumbed up an eyelid, watching the pupil contract as the light hit it.

"Out cold," he said tersely, gesturing around vaguely. "Check for the others."

He walked fast down the hall, glancing into the living room as he passed it, seeing Garth and Frank lying on the floor in there, their faces similarly covered in blood. He checked the kitchen, and turned around, heading for the basement door. At the bottom of the stairs, Steve was in a crumpled heap, a wide scrape on his forehead showing he'd probably fallen down the steps when he'd lost consciousness. He found Ellie and Trish lying in front of the open panic room door, both bloodied, but both breathing, their heartbeats strong.

Inside, Tamsin lay on the cot, her arms wrapped around her son, both of them unconscious, blood drying on their faces.

He walked back to Ellie and lifted her shoulders, sliding his leg under to support her head. He wiped the blood off her face, looking up as Rudy came down the stairs.

"Everyone's alive, but unconscious," the hunter said as he crossed the room. "Twist and Talya are upstairs. They must have hit them with something that put pressure on the skull cavities, all of them bled from the ears, eyes and nose."

Dean nodded disinterestedly. "Our kids are gone, that's all they came for."

"How'd they find the place?" Rudy asked, stopping near him uncertainly.

"Michael told them enough," Dean said, looking down as Ellie moved slightly. He watched her eyes open a little, her hand lifting to her head.

"You okay?" he asked her softly. She looked at him, and her eyes widened suddenly.

"John? Rosie?"

He kept his arm around her as she sat up, memory crashing back at the sight of Tricia lying on the floor next to her, the open door of the panic room beyond, turning back to him, wanting a different answer to the one she could see in his eyes.

He shook his head, pulling her close as she started to shake, walling off his emotions and thoughts as he held her, feeling her tears soaking into his shirt. Michael had been right, he thought bitterly. He should've been here.

* * *

**END**


	21. Chapter 21 A Tangled Web Woven

**Chapter 21 A Tangled Web Woven**

* * *

_**Great Bend, Kansas. March 5.**_

Adrienne's wails echoed through the bare, empty rooms, bouncing off the concrete floors. Maluch closed his eyes and swung around.

"Chasina, stop the child from crying!"

Chasina looked up from the map she was studying, her eyes narrowing as she stared back at the tall nephilim. "You wanted to bring her, you stop her from crying!"

"She's the key, without her we will not be able to break through, of course I had to bring her," he snapped back.

"My father said we would be able to enter by repenting and asking for forgiveness," she looked away from Maluch's baleful glare.

"Will you go on bended knee, Chas? Or walk in like an equal?"

She looked at the group of children, huddled together on the far side of the long, wide room, the baby in their midst. "Do you think we'll be treated as equals with the blood of a child on our hands, Maluch?"

His jaw muscles tightened. "The texts haven't been wrong yet, Chas."

He turned away from her and strode across the room to the children. "Make her stop."

John looked up at him. "She's hungry and cold. We all are."

"And she needs changing," Laura said, lifting her chin defiantly as she stared up at the tall man. "She's wet."

"Wet." Maluch considered that for a moment, then turned back to Chasina. "Take this one." He gestured to John, sitting in front of him. "Get everything he tells you they need. We've got another three weeks to wait and too much to do to be distracted right now."

Chasina sighed, and nodded, walking to the children and holding out her hand to John. "Come on, we'll go shopping."

He got up reluctantly, staring at her hand and folding his arms tightly across his chest. The rejection was plain and Chasina smiled slightly, dropping her hand to her side. His father's son, she thought, turning away. She heard his light footsteps behind her and walked to the wide freight elevator that would take them down to the car. They should have killed everyone in that house. Killed them and taken the heart from those who'd survived at Lovelock. Leaving them alive had been a bad decision, no matter what the angel had said.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon. March 6.**_

Dean woke abruptly, the indrawn whoop of his breath resounding in the room, his heart pounding. He rubbed his hand over his face, wiping the sweat from it, feeling the dampness in his hair, and pushed the covers aside, moving to the edge of the bed and sitting hunched over, his head in his hands.

He knew without looking that the other side of the bed would be smooth and unused. The nightmares weren't as horrifying when she was lying next to him, for either of them. But the last two nights, she hadn't been there and the dreams were bad, and getting worse, he thought tiredly.

He kept telling himself that Maluch and the others needed them, John and Rosie, and Marc and Laura and Adrienne. Needed them alive to complete the Circle. It didn't help. In the nightmares, he saw their faces, terrified and streaked with tears, in pain and alone and needing him, needing him to get them back and he woke with his chest aching.

The bedside clock showed three-thirteen.

He could hardly remember the events of the last three days. Sam, Adam, Baraquiel and Chazaquiel had returned, with Sariel and Shamsiel, Rudy and Carl and Charlie. Amaros and Araquiel had healed them as well as they could, but unlike the angels who had the power of Heaven, the Watchers couldn't heal completely. His brothers would take weeks to recover from their wounds. He'd watched Trish struggling to hold it together when she'd seen Sam, her face pale and drawn as she'd followed the Watchers carrying him into the house.

They'd had to tell Laney's girls that their mother was dead. Sara and Leah would stay with them, until this was over and someone could be spared to look for other relatives, or find out if Laney had had other arrangements in place for them. He'd watched Ellie hugging them, her fear and pain over John and Rosie still filling her, and the two little girls sensing it, clinging to her tightly. Standing beside them, he hadn't known how to comfort any of them, his anger pushed down and bottled up by will.

After the first night, Ellie had been a little harder, a little more on edge than he'd seen her before, her pain and fear and anger buried somewhere deep, somewhere hidden. He'd felt a flutter of unease at the coldness in her eyes, at the way she'd turned away from him, walled up in a cage of ice that he knew all too well.

He'd gone to check on Sam and Trish and Adam late the next day.

"How you doing?" He'd looked at Sam. The bone had been reset and the healing had begun but it was a long way from being useful. His brother had tried to sit up, wincing as the incautious movement set off a stabbing pain in his side.

"'Bout what you'd expect," he'd grimaced, easing back down. "I haven't seen Adam, Trish says he's okay?"

"He's still pretty weak, but the hole in his leg is smaller," Dean said, rubbing his forehead. "Is Trish holding up okay?"

Sam looked away. "She's terrified, Dean. She lost her parents, then Marcus, now this … I don't know." He exhaled softly. "She'd be better if I wasn't stuck here, I think. Have you tried Cas?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, a half a dozen times. No response."

"He banished them, didn't he?" Sam frowned, trying to piece together the confusing images he had left of the fighting.

"Yeah, pretty sure Michael's pissed at him, maybe got him locked down or something." He'd shrugged. "I'll keep trying."

"How's Ellie doing?" Sam'd looked at him.

He'd shaken his head. "She's shut down, withdrawn."

To his surprise, his brother had nodded understandingly. "She did the same thing when that witch took you, and, uh, when you were under the influence of the cursed bracelet."

He hadn't realised that. Hadn't even thought of it. Belatedly, he'd remembered how'd she been when she'd thought Frances had been killed by the demons, when Rosie had been in the hands of the changeling mother. She'd shut down then as well, focussing on the job, on what they had to do, refusing to admit to her fear, or ask for help.

She hadn't slept in the last two days, spending the long hours of the night down in the basement, scouring the database and the texts they had in the library for any clue of the ritual of the Circle, calling Monserrat to search the vaults of the monastery for anything he might have seen, calling contacts across the world to find out what they could.

He stood up and pulled on a pair of jeans, opening the bedroom door and walking down the stairs. The basement door was closed, but when he opened it, the whirr of printers going, a beep from the fax machine and the soft flicker of the computer monitors told him that she was still down here, still looking.

Ellie glanced up as he walked down the steps and across the room, looking back at the screen in front of her almost immediately.

"I know it's late," she said quietly when he came up beside her chair. "I can't sleep anyway."

He sat down beside her, looking at the screen and then back to her face. "Found anything?"

She flicked a sideways look at him. "No. Nothing yet."

"I'm not going to tell you how to deal with this, Ellie," he said quietly, lifting a hand and laying it gently against the back of her neck. "Let me help, okay? Don't shut me out. You might be able to handle it on your own … but I can't."

Ellie looked at him and he saw her eyes widening in understanding, the cold wall surrounding her dissolving. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "Not talking about falling apart, just … can we do this together?"

She nodded, closing her eyes. "I want them back, right now."

"I know," he said. "Me too."

"What they did, the firstborn, it didn't affect the children," Ellie rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, leaning over the keyboard on her elbows. "Before I blacked out, or on the way down to the floor anyway – I have an image, in my head, of Rosie. She was alright, no bleeding, just frightened."

He felt his chest constrict tightly and nodded. "We'll get them back."

For a moment, he thought she was going to turn away. He could see her making the decision, her shoulders straightening under his hand. Then she turned toward him instead, her arms circling his neck, her cheek against his. He closed his eyes, putting his arms around her, relief filling him.

* * *

_**March 9.**_

Frank shot in through the door, his long, dark coat whipping out behind him, shedding raindrops against the walls and over the floor.

"Ellie! Dean! Got it!"

The shout echoed through the house, bringing Twist and Steve and Red out from the kitchen and living room, Dean and Ellie and Garth up from the basement.

"Where?" Ellie strode to him, gesturing sharply to the living room. Frank turned in, walking past the hunters.

"Not where, not yet," Frank said, dropping the files on the coffee table and turning to face her. "When, and why."

Dean watched her mouth compress tightly, her eyes narrowing as she stared at Frank. If looks could kill, he thought, Frank would have dropped dead on the spot. He walked to her, putting his arm around her and feeling her pull in a deep breath and let it out again as Frank gestured impatiently at the files.

"They need a need a solar eclipse to pull off this circle –"

"That's March 30," Ellie interrupted him, looking at Steve. "Can you get Trish? She needs to know, and she can tell the others."

Steve nodded, turning and walking quickly from the room.

"Alright, Frank, why?" Ellie asked tartly, looking down at the files.

"Normally, the doorways between the planes are opened by a creature of those planes – in Heaven's case, Gabriel's trumpet can open a doorway anywhere, anytime."

"Why the hell didn't the firstborn just steal that, then?" Red scowled at Frank.

"Take an archangel to blow that horn," Garth said, shaking his head. "You try it without permission it'll blow your head off."

"Anyway," Frank raised his voice slightly, glancing at them irritably. "The Circle was designed to raise the power from the original Fallen angels, through their bloodlines – the strongest of their bloodlines – and then channel some kind of celestial power as well, an eclipse works, the power of the Sun and Moon in a direct line with Earth, but it needs the power of the earth as well."

"What power?" Dean's eyes narrowed.

"The ley lines," Ellie said slowly, looking at Frank for confirmation. He nodded.

"Which node and line will correspond exactly with the eclipse?" She sat down beside him on the sofa, flipping through the pages of data in the file.

"That's what I haven't worked out yet," he said apologetically. "There are dozens of calculations needed to work it out."

"What are you still doing here, Frank?" Dean asked softly.

Frank looked up at him and frowned. "I've narrowed it down to the continental United States, which is fortunate for us, but the leys were mapped more completely in the UK and Europe, not so much interest in them over here."

Ellie nodded. "Alright. We need some help."

"My folks are still mapping in the eastern states," Tamsin said, glancing at Garth. "But they're in touch with other groups … there's, uh Felix in Utah, and I think Mather is still working in California."

"That'll be a big help," Ellie said. "Can you find what they have? Frank'll give you the co-ordinates for the track of eclipse over the entire time it's in line with the country."

She nodded and got up and Garth left with her. Dean watched them go, then turned back to Ellie.

"Mapping what?"

"The shifting vortices and nodes of the lines," she said absently, staring fixedly at the table in front of her. "Red, get on the phone to any contacts you have in the south that might be following this stuff."

Frank looked at Dean's expression. "The ley lines follow the lines of electromagnetic energy in the planet. They're connected to the matrix of energy that lies in the crust and also the matrix that lies over the planet's surface. So the foci sometimes shift around. Most of the old sites of power, the ancient ones, are built close to or over a node that is almost permanently stable, but even those have small shifts, a mile this way or that, depending on what the electromagnetic fields are doing at the time. We have a date, and a number of geographical possibilities for a match, based on the where the conjunction of the Moon and Sun will hit the earth over the twelve hours it will be visible in this country. It will cross over only one node in that time, but without a fixed map to check that against, we can't find the exact location."

"Huh."

Ellie got up suddenly, her eyes focussed and her voice sharp. "Ray. He can build us a program in the time we have," she said, looking at Frank. "Do we have all the data he'll need in a send-able form?"

Frank nodded and she picked up the phone, walking out into the hallway. Dean heard her voice after a moment, talking fast to the programmer.

He'd met him once, a side-trip from a hunt in Florida, a year ago. Ray Simmons was a small, thin man with a face and chest criss-crossed by scars, relics of getting in the way of a demon attack back in 2006, a hunted expression and a mind like a steel trap. Ray lived on his own in a house that was wall-to-wall state of the art and personally designed and built hardware, researching and writing software to mine and sift through the vast amounts of data that was collected globally by governments and private agencies – on every possible natural phenomenon and the man-made ones as well – looking for patterns that indicated that other things were messing with the world. It'd been Ray who'd flagged the climate and growth aberrations when the creation goddess had been raised and passed it onto Frank. The programmer didn't like to get personally involved, and talking to him had given Dean a headache that had lasted twelve hours, but he had to admit that the guy knew his stuff.

"Hang on," Ellie said as she came back into the room. "I'll put you on to Frank, he can give you the parameters and preliminary data – we'll have some info soon on the possible matrix."

She handed the phone to Frank and turned away, looking at Dean, her face pinched and white. "Three weeks."

"It's enough time to get everyone together, if we've got a location," he said, standing up and going to her, knowing what she meant. Their kids, Sam's kids, alone and afraid for that length of time was a chilling thought. He shunted that knowledge aside, pushing it down. He couldn't get them back if he thought about it. He looked at Frank briefly and turned for the hall. "Come on."

"Where is everyone?" Ellie followed him down to the kitchen, sitting at the table as he went to the counter to pour them fresh coffees from the pot.

"Rudy and Charlie went back to Maine. He said he's got five hunters there," he said, carrying the cups to the table and sitting next to her. Ellie nodded absently, her hands curling around the cup for warmth.

"Guillaume, Carmen, Marguerite, Vincent and Michael are still with him," she said softly.

"Dwight called yesterday. Callie's set for an operation on Friday, and it'll be another two weeks if that goes okay, so they're going to be out of it," he continued, frowning as he pulled together the memories and details that he'd absorbed and filed away in the last couple of days. "Jeremy's on his own now. He said he was going to talk to Rudy about packing up the Michigan compound. Ah, Jim and Ginny and Achina are still more or less operational but they're not sure what's going to happen when Soleil gets back."

They'd lost a lot of people in this war, he realised. And it hadn't even been their war. He drew in a breath.

"Sam and Adam are out of action, for a few weeks, anyway. The same goes for Baraquiel and Chaz. I can't reach Cas." He hesitated, that worry rising again. The angel could've healed everyone, but there was just nothing when he'd prayed to him. Cas had been locked down in Heaven before, he guessed that Michael had probably been pretty pissed to be banished from the chance to kill the firstborn.

"Sariel and Shamsiel are looking for the firstborn but so far, nada." He looked at her, and after a moment, she looked up.

"Where's Twist? And Carl?"

"Running light training ops with Idan, Oran and Tagi, I think," he said. "Twist thought he'd take Idan down to help out Jim. I told him it'd be a good idea."

"Oran and Tagi should go and help Jeremy," she suggested, leaning her head against her hand. "There won't be time for him to close up that compound before we take out the firstborn, and afterwards, well, we'll see."

_See who's left, she meant_, Dean thought, looking at her. _See who's still alive_.

"Get some sleep," he said quietly to her, seeing the shadows around her eyes. "Just a couple of hours. I'll wake you if anything comes up."

She looked at him for a long moment and he could see her resistance to the idea.

"Didn't you tell me if there's nothing you can do in the moment, then you should let it go and rest, save your energy for when it's needed?"

"Wow, didn't see that one biting me in the ass," she said, wrinkling her nose half-heartedly at him. He leaned forward, smiling slightly.

"Yeah, well, take your own advice."

She stood up and he got up with her, pulling her close, feeling her tiredness as she leaned against him.

"This isn't a sprint, Ellie and you know it," he murmured against her temple. "We gotta pace ourselves this time."

"I know."

Looking down at her, he gently lifted her face to his, searching her eyes. "We're together, right?"

He felt her ribs rise under his arms as she pulled in a deep breath. "We're together."

* * *

_**March 12.**_

Ellie cradled the cup of coffee between her hands, trying to get some warmth into her fingers.

"Trish? Do you want anything else done?" Talya said, wringing out the cloth and draping it over the rail. The nephilim had been quick to come over and help, though she was nursing her husband as well.

"No, thanks, Talya," Tricia looked up, wiping under her eyes with her fingertips and smiling tiredly.

"Tamsin will be here later, to check on Adam's leg. I'll see you both tomorrow then," Talya said, turning for the door. Ellie and Tricia nodded, watching her leave.

"Is there any news on where they are?" Trish asked Ellie, looking down at her cup.

"Not yet." Ellie sipped her coffee. "Ray's running the existing mapping against the geophysical data and the electromagnetic data he's got. It's a matter of elimination at the moment. He's set up the program to do the actual mapping himself if there aren't any known vortices already present along the eclipse track."

"I keep telling myself, we wouldn't have been any safer, if we'd just gone," Tricia said abruptly, looking across the table at Ellie. "I asked Sam if he wanted to quit, just go and do something normal, something out of the hunting life. I thought that's what he wanted, but he said that we were as safe here as we would be out of the life. And they would've found us anyway, wouldn't they? Even if we'd been totally anonymous in some other place, they needed him and the children and they would've found us?"

Ellie looked down at the table for a moment. "Yeah, I think so, Trish. Without the protection that we had on the houses, they might have found you months ago."

Tricia nodded. "I keep telling myself that."

"Trish, they won't harm them. They need them. They'll keep them safe and we'll get them back and it'll be over," Ellie said, leaning across the table and taking her hand. "We have to remember that."

"I can't believe I wanted this life, or any part of it, Ellie," Tricia said in a whisper. "Sam told me, you know. He told me everything and I kept thinking, how did he survive? How did either of them survive a childhood like that? How did they turn out the way they did? And everything that happened to them, since their father died … it's not a life. They were hunted down from before they were born … but I didn't think, it didn't occur to me that our children would have the same thing happen to them."

She looked down and Ellie saw her shoulders shaking helplessly, her tears splashing on the smooth table surface. She slipped from her chair and moved around the table to put her arms around Tricia, holding her tightly. She couldn't say anything that might have eased her friend's pain or fear. She felt it too deeply herself. Ray was working on the location. They knew the time and date. They were doing everything they could do to get them back. Even so, it felt like it wasn't enough. John and Rosie had already been through too much. Children were resilient, she knew that even from her own loveless upbringing, they were also vulnerable, impressionable and easily frightened. How much would be too much?

* * *

_**March 15.**_

Dean lifted the steaks from the pan onto the plates and carried them to the table, sitting down as Ellie passed him a bowl of salad.

"We'll need to take them out pretty much all together, and without any warning," he said, shifting tomatoes and cheese to his plate and leaving the lettuce in the bowl.

Ellie nodded, passing him the potatoes. "A lot is going to depend on the location. What kind of building, what kind of access. I was thinking about the tranq projectors or, failing that, maybe using a knock-out gas, if there's a central delivery system."

"Like at Lovelock?" He looked at her as he put the bowl on the table. "An anaesthetic?"

"Yeah. It worked quickly in that house, it was fairly open-plan though."

"What about the kids? Won't it be too strong for them?" he asked, brows drawn together with concern.

"We'll have to go in fast, with oxygen and gas masks to get them out, but again, it depends on the setup," Ellie said. "If they're keeping the children separately, it can work. If not, then the projectors are probably our best shot."

Dean nodded. "Well, we'll take both. Will the tranqs work on them?"

"They're half-human, they have the same physiology as we do, we'll up the dosage because it would be better if they were really out, but yeah, it should work."

"You, me, Carl and Red, and uh, Twist on the projectors?" he asked. Ellie nodded.

"Or if Rudy's crew get there in time, Guillaume and Marguerite. Both are good shooters and they've both handled the projectors before."

He raised a brow curiously. "Why didn't you get in touch with Rudy earlier? I mean, years ago?"

Ellie looked at him. "I thought they'd been killed. Marcus told me that nearly twenty hunters were taken down by a group of Arachne, preying over the north-eastern states, in '11-12, and when I tried to contact Rudy, his phone and half of the others were dead accounts."

"Arachne?" Dean stopped chewing. "Did anyone get them all?"

"Yeah, Laney spent three months tracking them down, said there were four of them. They got the last one just before the leviathan problem started." She looked at his expression. "What's wrong?"

"That was …," he stopped, wondering if there was any point to raising old history. "Sam's soul was AWOL when he and Samuel took a case in Rhode Island. It was an Arachne. He shot and burned the offspring of the female he killed there, didn't check if that would kill them. They all came from there, except for one."

Ellie looked at him for a long moment. "I asked Laney about it – and Rudy, when he got here – she said that the hunters who'd been killed weren't all that experienced."

He pushed his plate away, nodding. "Doesn't matter, does it?"

"No," she said firmly. "Nobody gets it right every time, and it probably could've happened to any number of experienced hunters."

He looked up at her tone. "I know … just, uh, don't tell Sam."

Ellie shook her head. "Of course not."

* * *

_**March 18.**_

The dining room was bright with sunshine, merciless to the tired faces of the people sitting around the table, showing up hollows and shadows like bruises.

"The Circle will be formed at the precise conjunction of the Moon and Sun over the node. We don't know what that is yet, but if we're even a minute late, then we'll have to wait until after the ritual is finished, and the doorway's been opened," Sariel said, looking around.

"Why?" Twist frowned at the tall, dark-skinned Watcher.

"It was a failsafe," Shamsiel said from the other end of the table. "If the ritual was interrupted, the energy being called will stop flowing through the Nine, and the build up will kill them. It was supposed to prevent the Circle from being ambushed by Lucifer or any of his followers as a way back."

Dean felt Ellie tense up beside him, felt himself stiffen at the words. Across the table, he saw Tricia's hands clench into fists on the table top.

"So Michael could kill them all by opening the door as they are trying to do the same thing?" Ellie asked, her voice tight and hard.

"No," Sariel said quickly, shaking his head. "Iophiel cannot open the doorway in the same location as the Circle, only one doorway can exist in the one place at the one time. He can open a doorway nearby, however."

That was hardly reassuring, Dean thought sourly. "Alright, timing's critical. We need to be there before the Circle opens, before they start."

"Yes, that would be best," Sariel agreed, looking at him. "If we have to wait until after, we also face the possibility that Michael and the Host will be waiting at the doorway when it opens."

"Has Ray made any progress on the location?" Tricia looked from Frank to Ellie. Ellie glanced at Frank and shook her head.

"Not yet. He has the track of the eclipse; the mapping of the lines hasn't been all that well-organised. He's eliminated a few possibilities but there are still several states to check," she said gently.

"It's been two weeks, Ellie!" Tricia snapped suddenly, her eyes filling with tears and her throat working. "Two weeks those monsters have had our children."

"He's working on it twenty-four-seven, Trish." Ellie looked at her steadily, although Dean felt her tension where his arm rested against hers. "We'll find them."

Tricia stared at her for a long moment, then her gaze dropped to her hands on the table as her shoulders slumped. She was thin, Dean realised, a lot thinner now, and he wondered if she was burning everything off through her nerves or just not eating.

He saw Ellie turn her head slightly, her gaze meeting Tamsin's, and Garth's wife nodded once.

"Alright," Red cleared his throat and looked around the table. "We get the location and we get there early – how're we gonna take them out?"

"Knock out gas," Frank answered, looking from Red to Dean. Dean shrugged and nodded.

"That will depend a little on the setup they have, but yeah, either we hit them with tranq darts or do it the same way they took out us out in Lovelock," he said. "Sevuflurane anaesthetic and nitrous oxide piped into wherever they're hiding, and we'll go in with gas masks, and get the kids out, then deal with them."

"And if they spot us coming?" Twist looked at him worriedly.

"They won't, not this time," Ellie said decisively. "Dean and I will go in the Impala – that was warded by Michael, so it really is invisible to them, and I think we're the ones they'll be looking for. Everyone else, Sariel and Shamsiel will ward the cars against them. We'll meet the others and go only in the warded cars to wherever they are."

"How many we taking?" Red asked.

"Everyone," Dean said shortly. "Everyone who can get there in time."

* * *

_**March 22.**_

Ellie sat in the garden, down past the pond, well away from the house, waiting. Amaros had told her how to contact him when he and Araquiel had brought the hunters back and she needed answers now.

Across the wide valley that stretched out to the north and east in front of her, the shadows lengthened over the farmland and vineyards, over the forests and fields and she could make out the distant twinkles of the town lights as dusk continued to darken.

"Eleanor," Amaros said, walking up behind her.

Ellie turned to look at him. The Watcher's long hair was the same as her own, coppery and fine. His eyes were the same as hers as well. She wondered vaguely how those purely genetic traits could have been passed down the years without any genetic material passing from angel to human. The angels themselves didn't know how it happened, what was passed along from them to their children.

"I need to know about the key to Heaven," she said, without preamble as he sat beside her on the small stone bench, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Specifically, what it does and how."

He nodded, looking over the shadowed valley. "A part of the key is locked in every angel."

"Yes, that I know," she said impatiently. "Why did Maluch take Adrienne but not me? If the two halves have to be together to open the doorway? He can't get in with just Adrienne?"

He was silent for a moment. "He can. A single part of the key will open the doorway with a sacrifice."

"What?" She turned to look at him in shock. "He's going to kill the baby?"

"I would imagine that is his plan," Amaros said, gesturing slightly. "She would've been easier to take than you and the protocol was written down in the oldest manuscripts."

Ellie stared into the darkness. It changed everything, distorted everything they'd thought. Don't think about that now, she told herself, get the information you need.

"What happens when the two halves of the key are brought together?"

Amaros turned his head to look at her. "That depends on the holders of the key. The power to open the doorway is … enormous, Eleanor, I'm not sure I can even describe it to you in a concept that you can comprehend. You understand that everything is energy? Opening the door … it is a forcing together of the planes, along their boundaries, and one must alter the fabric and nature of the universe to achieve it. The flux of energy, of power, that has to pass through the bearers … flesh and blood is not usually capable of withstanding it."

And Adrienne was only a little over a year old, she thought, her stomach fluttering. She looked at him. "You need to tell me everything, Amaros. If we're even a minute late and can't stop the Circle from forming, I won't let Maluch kill Adrienne to open that door. But there has to be a way to protect her, even if it all has to go through me."

He sighed softly. "If the Circle is formed then both you and the child will be … attuned … to each other. Touching her will join you. And the doorway will open."

"And Michael and the Host will slaughter everyone they find."

"Perhaps," the Watcher shrugged. "Michael is not as strong as he thinks, and his disobedience will have consequences even though he thinks there won't be."

"Michael has a problem with seeing consequences," she told him sourly, remembering the archangel's wilful pride on the occasions she'd crossed swords with him.

"Yes, he does." Amaros smiled slightly. "If the key is joined, the power it holds can not only open the doorway, it can control the energy that flows from each plane and between them. The bearer could, if they were strong enough, stop time, hold those in mortal form in stasis …" he lifted a shoulder, letting the words trail off.

"So there would be a way to prevent Michael and the firstborn from doing anything … rash … in that moment?" Ellie looked at him.

He turned to face her, his hand lifting lightly to her hair, cupping her face. "You … and the child, you are human. You couldn't contain the energy that would be forced through you. The key does what the key does, and without control, it would burn through you both and open the doorway and let in the Host."

She closed her eyes. "You could help."

He let his hand drop, resting his arm along the back of the bench. "You drew off my power once before, at need."

"Would it be enough? To do that again?" She opened her eyes and stared into his, a small crease appearing between her brows. "I don't know how I did that."

"I don't know if it would be enough," he said quietly. "I don't know if it would be enough to protect both of you, to give you some control over it."

He looked away, letting his breath out in a deep exhale. "Getting there before the ritual can commence is the safest way."

She nodded. "Of course it is, but even the best laid plans sometimes get screwed. I need more than that, I need to know there's something else I can do if that doesn't go the way we want it to."

"There is a sigil, a kind of a key in itself," he said slowly. "That would give a bond between us that you could use."

She looked at him hopefully. He saw her expression and shook his head.

"The method is very painful, Eleanor."

Ellie shook her head impatiently. "Do you think I'm worried about that – now?"

"Give me your arm," the Watcher said with a sigh, holding out his hand.

"No, somewhere that it won't be seen readily," she countered, turning away from him and pulling off her jacket, her fingers unbuttoning her shirt quickly. "Where it can't be seen by accident."

Amaros looked at the smooth flesh of her back and nodded, lifting his hand.

Ellie tensed as the Watcher's long nail cut through her skin and deep into the muscle beneath, her breath whistling through her teeth at the pain that grew deeper and sharper as the lines were cut into her, blood trickling down her back. It would be worth it if she could call on the Watcher's power, could know that she could still do something to protect her children and Tricia's if their careful planning failed.

* * *

Dean walked through the house, looking for Ellie.

"Frank?" He leaned through the basement door, looking down the stairs. "Ellie there?"

"No," Frank grunted. "Haven't seen her since late afternoon."

"Thanks," he said, closing the door again and turning for the deck. He checked the ground floor rooms, and the garden, garage and workshop, then headed up the stairs. She wasn't in their bedroom or the guest room. He opened the door to Rosie's room and saw her, sitting on the edge of the bed with Rosie's pillow in her arms.

"Hey," he said quietly, walking over to the bed and sitting beside her. "You okay?"

"No," she said, her voice muffled against the pillow. She drew in a deep breath, her eyes closing as Rosie's scent filled her nostrils and turned her head slowly to look at him. "Yeah, I'm okay. The waiting … I feel like there must be something else I can do."

"Yeah, well, right now, there's just not," he said, putting his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Ray called. He said that there're four states left to run."

She nodded, closing her eyes. "I should see Trish, let her know."

"Tomorrow," he said, gesturing to the window. "They'll be asleep."

Ellie glanced down at her watch, sighing as she saw the time. Two-thirty.

"Are you okay?" She looked up at him, seeing the deeper lines around his eyes, bracketing his mouth, the dark shadows. "Are you sleeping?"

"I'll be okay when they're home," he said, his arms tightening around her. "And I sleep better if you're with me."

She nodded, putting the pillow on the bed. "We can get three or four hours."

* * *

_**March 25.**_

Dean looked at Trish uneasily as she opened the door. She flicked a glance at him, pushing back a strand of lank dark hair, standing back to let them in.

"Did Frank find the location?"

"Not yet," Ellie said, turning to look at her as she walked past them, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen.

"Ray's narrowed down the search area to four states, for the length of the eclipse," Dean added, following them down the hall.

"Four? Which four?" Trish asked as she sat slumped at the table, staring up at them.

"South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas and Oklahoma."

Trish laughed softly without humour. "God, we're not going to make it, we're not going to get there in time."

"We've still got a week, Trish," Ellie said, frowning slightly. "There's enough time."

"Twist and Idan have left for Texas," Dean added, looking down at her, watching her hands twisting helplessly around themselves, the morning light coming through the wide windows unforgiving on the taut skin and deep shadows that ringed her eyes. "They'll get Jim and Ginny and Achina. Rudy and his crew are already on their way, and Carl's gone to pick up Jeremy, he'll meet us in Lincoln."

Ellie sat down close to her sister-in-law. She hadn't been this agitated and afraid the last time they'd talked.

"Trish, what's wrong? What happened?" she asked gently.

"I went to see Sariel and Shamsiel," Trish admitted in a low voice, looking down at the table top. She looked up and her eyes were wide and dark, her expression accusing. "I needed to know, needed to know more than what you've been telling me."

"Trish, we haven't kept anything back," Dean said. "You know everything we do."

"Sariel said that they took Adrienne to kill her," she blurted out suddenly and Ellie felt her stomach drop. It explained Tricia's worsening fears. She had hoped that no one would find out about that.

"What?" Dean sat down in a chair next to Tricia. "Why?"

"Because one half of the key can still be used if it's done with blood!" Trish snapped at him, her voice shrill as she looked at Ellie. "Did you know that?"

Ellie shook her head. Trish staggered to her feet, her chair crashing over behind her as she pointed at Ellie unsteadily. "Why didn't they take you? If they had to kill someone, why not you?"

Neither Dean nor Ellie could answer her, the answer was obvious and both knew that Tricia knew it as well.

Tricia dragged in a deep breath, backing away from the table. "Why couldn't you have just fucking well died with your parents, Ellie? Why couldn't you have died then and then none of this would've happened, no Circle, no key, no Lucifer rising or anything else that's happened since Uncle Marcus died – why?"

"Trish," Dean snapped, getting to his feet, his face taut with anger. There was a noise at the door and Talya stood there, with Sam, ashen-faced, leaning against the wall behind her.

"Trish?"

"This is all her fault, Sam," Trish said pleadingly, turning to him and stumbling across the kitchen. "If she'd just died when she was supposed to, it would be alright."

Talya caught her, looking past her to Ellie and Dean. "She hasn't been eating or sleeping, this is just …"

"It's alright, Talya, Sam," Ellie said quietly, watching as Trish half-collapsed against Sam. "It's understandable."

Dean glanced at her. Her face was smooth and expressionless. He looked back at his brother, forcing his feelings down as he caught Sam's apologetic look, his arms wrapped around Trish.

"I'll get Tamsin," Talya said briskly. "She just needs to rest."

Sam looked down at the woman he held. "Come on, Trish, let's get upstairs."

Dean moved forward as he saw the spasm of pain cross Sam's face as he straightened up, saw how weak his brother was. He slid his shoulder under Tricia's arm, the brothers half-carrying her down the hall and up the stairs.

Ellie walked out of the kitchen, and down the hall, opening the front door and letting herself out. She waited on the porch for Dean, breathing deeply through the tremors that shook through her.

A few minutes later, Dean came out, closing the door quietly behind him. He looked at Ellie, seeing the rigidity in her back.

"She's wro–" he started to say and Ellie shook her head.

"I know," she cut him off gently. "It's alright."

He looked at her, wondering if she was telling him the truth. The accusations had been unfounded, holding the bare minimum of truth to make them painful. He thought that Trish could've levelled them at him with the same justification, and the same amount of truth in them.

He walked toward her and Ellie started down the steps a pace or two ahead of him, lengthening her stride as she hit the paved path, her jacket drawn tightly around her and her arms crossed tightly in front of her. The wind was cold and thin, but he didn't think that was the reason for the way she was hunched up. He caught up to her as she turned out of the driveway and headed up the road.

"Ellie."

She glanced at him, nodding slightly at the concern in his voice. "I know she's on the edge, Dean."

"It wouldn't have made any difference to the firstborn or Lucifer," he pressed. "Only to me."

She smiled thinly. "Not entirely true."

"If I'd died when I was supposed to, none of it would've happened either," he insisted, slowing down, forcing her to slow down as well and look at him.

For a moment, she looked at him, her mouth twisting slightly as she took in the worry in his eyes. Then she turned away and started walking again.

"You're not the last in the line of Araquiel, Dean."

He caught up, frowning at her. "And you are, in Amaros' line?"

She nodded and turned into their gate. "If I'd died, none of it would've happened, there wasn't anyone else."

"How do you know that?" he demanded, reaching out to catch her arm and stop her.

"Amaros told me," she said, glancing at the house.

"It doesn't matter," he said, wrapping his arm around her, his fingers closing tight on her shoulder as he felt her flinch slightly. "We've never had a choice in how this crap has gone down."

"I know," she said mildly, walking more slowly beside him. "Dean, I know that Trish is freaking and strung out with fear, I know that."

"Then don't let it tear you apart," he said, a thread of disbelief in his voice. She looked up at him.

"It's not. It won't."

She might've been trying to reassure him, he thought, following her across the turnaround and up the steps, or she might've been trying to hide her feelings from him. He couldn't be sure. There was the faintest prickle on the back of his neck as he watched her go inside, shedding jacket and scarf and hanging them up on the coat rack in the hall, her voice light and even as she greeted Red.

* * *

"You're on speaker, Ray," Ellie said, sitting on the short sofa with Dean, Frank and Red in the armchairs on the other side of the low table, Twist and Carl and Idan sitting on the long sofa.

"I've looked at all the existing mapping, and they're not quite right," Ray said, the frown clearly audible in his voice. "Frank, you said the DOD were tracing weapons signatures with that K54 satellite?"

"Yep."

"Well, I had look through their input yesterday and they're also tracking EM paths."

Frank leaned forward in his chair, glancing up at Ellie. "Are they following the lines?"

"Looks like," Ray confirmed. "I've got another few samples to get through, but I should have a location by tomorrow afternoon, latest."

"That's good news, Ray," Ellie said, her eyes closing in relief. They would have enough time to get across the country and reconnoitre the site properly if they could leave tomorrow night, no matter which state the node was in.

"Yeah, there's a problem though," Ray said prosaically.

"What problem?" Frank snapped.

"The DOD have this bird scheduled for a pickup and check tonight, just found out the shuttle timetable in the last hour."

"Can you abort it?" Frank looked at Ellie.

"Probably, but I need some help hitting their security at the same time," Ray said.

Ellie's eyes narrowed. "We can do that, Ray."

"Good, just thought I'd check."

"How long do you need?" Frank asked.

"Oh, 'bout an hour or so, might put our timetable back a couple, I guess."

"Hammer it, Ray, we need that fix as soon as possible," Ellie said tightly. "I mean it."

"Okey dokey," Ray agreed cheerfully. "I'll need to you to hit them at … twenty-two hundred, is that alright with you?"

"Yes, we'll be there," Frank confirmed. He leaned across the table and cut the call.

"All those worms we set up for Roman …?" Ellie raised a brow at him. He nodded.

"I'll get my network set up for routing now, if you can load up the discs and have the main servers ready to fire."

Dean looked from Frank to Ellie. "What's going on?"

"Ray needs us to overwhelm the DOD's security while he sneaks in and changes the space shuttle's schedule so that we can use the satellite to map the lines," Frank explained tersely.

"We've got a load of clutter ready to go," Ellie added, leaning back and looking at Dean. "Just need to make sure no one can trace any of it to us while it's running."

"Being as how our timetable is too tight to fit in a chat with the Secret Service right this minute." Frank got up and headed for the door.

"Anything the rest of us can do to help?" Twist looked at Ellie as she got up as well.

"No, it's not a big thing, Twist," she said, heading for the basement.

Dean watched her go. Something in her had changed. She'd made a decision, of some kind, he thought, resolved something that had been nagging at her. The underlying fear and tension that he'd felt in her since the firstborn had been here had gone, either pushed down or sublimated in a plan of action. And she hadn't told him what that plan was.

He turned back to the others. "Alright, we get a location tomorrow afternoon, we need to be ready to head out the second it comes in, so time to get what we're taking with us packed up." He looked at Idan. "Can you let Sam know, and call Rudy, Jeremy and Dwight, tell them they need to be available to move tomorrow?"

Idan nodded, and the men rose from their seats and went into the hall, unspeaking as they went out the front door. There would be four vehicles needing full warding and Dean walked after them, going down the porch steps and across the gravel to the Impala to get the Watchers.

* * *

Ellie walked into the dark bedroom, hearing the rustle of the covers as Dean turned over in the bed.

"All done?" he asked softly, invisible in the darkness.

"Yep, they won't know what hit them for the next four hours," she said, walking around to her side and pulling off her clothes, wincing slightly at the stinging of the cuts on her back.

She slipped into the bed, moving closer to him. "Did you get everything else sorted out?"

"Yeah," he said, rolling onto his side to face her, his hand finding her hip. "Cars are ready, we've got the projectors, canisters and gas bottles, hollow-points in every gun … we're ready to go as soon as Ray has the node location."

Ellie stretched out. "Good. Did anyone go and see Sam and Trish?"

"Red saw them, brought them up to speed. Just Sam and Talya."

"Is Trish alright?"

"Tamsin pretty well sedated her, according to Red."

She was silent and he wished he could see her expression but the scant light there was in the room barely outlined her shape. He had the strong sense of a fine tension in her, crackling off her.

"Ellie?"

"Mmm."

"You're not thinking about what – what she said, are you?" he asked. He felt her move closer to him, her hand hooking around his ribs, pulling him over to lie on her.

"No," she said, and he felt her breath on his mouth. "But I could use a distraction anyway."

He shifted his weight to his arms and kissed her, his worry swamped by desire as her hands slid down his body.

* * *

Ellie woke, aware that something was wrong. She slipped out of the bed without disturbing Dean, pulling on jeans and a jumper and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door silently behind her.

At the top of the stairs, she stopped, looking down to the hall below, listening to the small noises of the house, of the night. The porch boards creaked by the front door and she walked down, keeping close to the wall, her eyes narrowed as she saw the shape moving outside the door dimly through the etched glass panels.

The man turned around as she opened the door, and she recognised him immediately. _Vellos_. Jofranka's son.

"I have come for my mother's locket. The favour," he said in a low voice. She nodded, opening the door and standing aside to let him in.

"I'll get it," she told him, turning to walk down the hall to the door that led to the basement. The locket, in its silk bag, had been sitting in the safe since they'd returned.

She opened the safe and pulled it out, closing the door and hearing the lock catch. Walking back up to the hall, she thought the bag felt warmer in her hand. It could have been an illusion.

"Here," she said, handing it to him. To her surprise, he didn't turn to leave, just stood there staring at her. "What?"

"My mother said to give you this," he said, holding out his hand. Ellie looked down at the pendant he held. The silvery setting held a dark, smoky-coloured crystal. "She said you would know what it is, what it does, when you must use it."

She took it, her fingers closing around it. "Did she say anything else?"

Vellos nodded. "She said even the greatest storm cannot destroy the willow, if the willow bows before it."

He nodded and turned to leave and Ellie shut the door behind him, turning the locks as she leaned against it. Nice and cryptic, she thought.

She looked down at the crystal in her hand. Well, she had no idea what it was, what it would do or when to use it.

She would look at it in the morning, check it through with Frank, she thought, climbing the stairs again.

* * *

_**March 26.**_

_The lake was familiar and peaceful. He'd been here in 2004, living with his father in the house that was nestled on the shoreline behind him, the jetty he sat on a part of the property. The fishing line stretched out into the deeper water and he watched it, watched the changing colours on the smooth, mirrored surface as the clouds went by overhead, listened to the deep silence that surrounded him._

"_I'm dreaming, aren't I?" he said, hearing the angel's wings behind him. Cas had used the lake before to talk to him in a dream._

"_Yes," Castiel said, walking to the edge of the jetty, where he sat with his legs hanging over the edge._

"_Where are you, Cas?" Dean looked around at the angel. "We need you, Sam and Adam and the Watchers need healing and we have to have to find where the eclipse will hit a node in the ley lines."_

"_I can't help you, Dean, I'm sorry." Castiel leaned against the painted timber bollard._

"_Why not?"_

"_I'm in – well, you'd call it prison, I suppose."_

"_In Heaven?"_

"_Yes," Castiel said, looking across the lake. "For disobedience."_

"_Another hanging sentence?"_

"_No. I don't think he'll try that again," the angel shrugged. "But I can't leave here. And I haven't seen anyone for days."_

"_He's going to kill them all, isn't he?" Dean looked back at the line._

"_Yes," Cas said, crouching down. "He's already convinced himself that the Blessing wasn't really God's Will."_

"_Can we stop him?"_

"_I don't know." Castiel looked at him worriedly. "Dean, there's something you need to know, about the key –"_

The alarm went off, beeping insistently and he flung his arm out, hand hitting the top of the clock hard, trying to get back to the lake, to the angel. After a moment, he opened his eyes, resigned to the fact that they were gone.

Twisting around, he looked at the other side of the bed. It was empty, naturally. Through the windows the eastern sky beyond the mountains was a pale mauve, but Ellie would've been up for a while anyway. A dark spot on the sheets caught his eye and he shifted to his elbow, looking down at the dark red stains. Blood. Not much. A cut that hadn't healed up quite, he thought, brows drawing together as he stared at it. Neither of them had anything like that.

He rolled off the bed and got dressed, hurrying downstairs. The faint prickle of his nerves was slightly stronger, warning him of something. What had the angel wanted to tell him about the key, he wondered uneasily. Cas had sounded and looked worried, and that couldn't be good.

Ellie sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cooling beside her as she looked at the screen of the laptop. She lifted her gaze as he came through the door.

"Didn't I turn the alarm off?"

He shook his head, going to the coffee pot. "Cas turned up in a dream this morning."

"He did? What did he say?" Ellie swivelled around in the chair to watch him as he walked to the table and sat down.

"Michael's got him locked up somehow, for disobedience," he said, sipping the black coffee. "He tried to tell me something about the key but I woke up."

He was watching her face and saw her eyes cut away as he said it. "Something you know about the key that I should, Ellie?"

"I spoke to Amaros. Asked him about the key and how it could open the door, what we could do to stop Michael and the angels from just killing everyone, if we couldn't get there in time to stop the Circle before the ritual," she said, looking at the screen.

"And?"

"He said that the energy flow was incredibly powerful and it took a lot of juice to control it once the door was opened," she added reluctantly, unsure of how much to tell him.

Dean looked at her, his eyes narrowed. "But he had a solution, I take it."

"He said that if I could draw on his power, it might be enough," she admitted. "I can't remember how I did that … before, in Hell. Just instinctively, I think, trying to save the baby."

He nodded, thinking of the blood drops on the bed. "What did he do to you, to make that connection permanent?"

Her gaze flicked up to him. "There's a sigil, like a conduit, that can help."

"And he carved it into you, somewhere?" He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling at her surprise. "There's some blood, in our bed. You weren't going to tell me about it, were you?"

"I was hoping that I'd never have to use it," she said, sighing. "I wanted something, a plan B, I guess, in case it all went to hell."

"What I'm really curious about is what it needs, Ellie, that you're too afraid to tell me," he said softly, leaning across the table to her. "Because I'm getting the impression that I'm not going to like it."

"It's not that dramatic," she said, picking up her cup and swallowing the rest of the tepid coffee.

"Then why not tell me?" He looked at her warily. "Why not tell me that you knew what Maluch was going to do with Adrienne?"

"Would it've helped to know that?" she asked, putting her cup down and looking at him. "It didn't help me. It hasn't helped Tricia."

"Tell me the truth, goddammit." He reached out for her hand, holding it tightly.

"The truth is what we're doing, what we're planning on doing, we could all die, any one of us, at any point. I'm just trying to mitigate that, alright? Just trying to make sure we survive," she said, her face hard as she stared into his eyes. "That's all, I promise, that's all."

"That's not good enough –"

"Dean, Ellie …" Twist stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking nervously from one to the other. "Frank's got the coordinates, we gotta go."

Ellie looked around, nodding and getting up. Dean let her go unwillingly as he got up as well.

"We're not done with this conversation," he warned her softly as he followed her and Twist up the hall.

* * *

_**I-84 E, Idaho. March 26.**_

Dean's fingers were tight on the wheel as he weaved in and out of the traffic on the interstate, the sunlight flooding the car forcing him to squint to see the road.

"No, Dwight, stay put. This'll all be over by the time Callie's alright to travel, just stay with them," Ellie said on the phone, tucked into the corner between the door and the back of the seat, her legs drawn up. She glanced at him and opened the glove box, pulling out a pair of sunglasses and passing them to him.

He took them and put them on. He didn't usually use them, even if the glare was bright, wanting all the details clear but driving straight into the rising sun was a good way to use up energy he needed.

Sariel and Oran were sitting silently in the backseat. Carl and Idan were heading for Lincoln, Carl's bright red pickup easily visible a few cars back. Behind him, Steve and Garth were in a deep green four wheel drive, going with Carl to Lincoln to help pick up Rudy's team. Twist and Shamsiel were in Twist's pale grey pickup, already peeled off and driving south to meet Jim, Ginny and Achina in Oklahoma City.

Ellie closed the phone and looked at the screen of the open laptop on the seat between them.

"There's no cover between this place and the road," she said, staring down at the warehouse that sat in the middle of a wide, open lot, at the junction of Washington Street and Dike Road near the river. "We can't get close enough to use the projectors, without getting inside."

He glanced down at the computer briefly. "What about from underneath?"

"No, power and phone come in overhead from the pole on the road."

"Smoke and mirrors?" he suggested lightly, seeing her gaze lift to him in the corner of his eye. "Take in the small projectors and go in as phone company or gas company or something like that, shoot when they answer the door?"

Ellie turned her head to look at Sariel. "What power do they have now?"

The Watcher shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know," he said. "They should not have been able to join together and escape the way they did in Lovelock – Reuma and Kitra were already dead. They never had power unless the seven of them were together, joined."

She looked at Dean. "We can take out one that way, no matter what power they have. But we'll never get the other four in time, and if the darts don't knock them out immediately, they can warn each other."

He chewed on the corner of his lip, staring at the traffic ahead. "Can we get close tonight?"

"With the sigils," Ellie glanced back at Sariel who nodded. "- painted on us, it's possible. If the warehouse has a stand-alone security system, perhaps not." She looked back at the screen. "We'll know when we get there."

He nodded unhappily. They were going directly to Great Bend, but they'd only have a day at most to look over the situation before the others arrived, the drive from both Lincoln and Oklahoma City was only around four hours.

* * *

_**Burley, Idaho. March 27.**_

Ellie filled the tank and paid for the gas, buying another cup of coffee. In the car, Sariel and Oran were sleeping; Dean had shifted to the passenger seat, hunched into the corner, his eyes closed.

She pulled out and turned onto the interstate, settling herself as comfortably as possible for the next eight-hour stretch to Cheyenne.

"What do we do if there's no way in, Ellie?" Dean said softly from beside her and she glanced over at him.

"There'll be a way in," she replied quietly. "They can't start before the eclipse does, that helps."

He was silent, staring through the windshield at the taillights ahead of them. "They only have to hold us off until then."

"No. There'll be things that they need to be doing, up to the point of the main ritual, they won't be able to leave that stuff, it'll screw up their timing," she said slowly. "We'll have a look from the river and from the road."

There was a huff beside her as he straightened up a little in the seat. "This isn't your fault, you know."

"I know," she agreed, watching the road. It wasn't her fault. But it wouldn't be happening if she hadn't been saved. She'd done nothing but think about the ramifications of that single act since they'd passed into Idaho. Uriel and Lucifer had both called her a spoiler. The Winchesters were also spoilers, upsetting the paths of destiny with every action they took. This, this was different though. This should never have happened. The Watchers had looked down the lines and not seen this, had thought they'd solved the problem.

Dean watched her profile, outlined by the pale lights from the dash, her face expressionless. He couldn't work out what was going through her mind. For a long time after they'd defeated Lucifer and Leviathan, they hadn't talked of what had happened to her, about the prophecy and the ritual the devil and the arch-demons had wanted her and John for. She'd had nightmares about it and finally she'd told him about them, told him how it'd felt and the fear she'd had that her life was somehow wrong, that she shouldn't have been here, that there could have been no prophetic child if she'd died when she was supposed to. The conversation had scared the hell out of him.

He had the feeling that fear had come back, or maybe it'd never left, maybe she'd just told him it had. He didn't know what to do about it.

* * *

_**I-70 E, Kansas. March 27.**_

The flat farmland surrounded them, silos and occasional houses providing insubstantial relief from the huge skies and wide plains. The sun was bright, once again coming through the windshield into Dean's face.

He caught the movement in the corner of his eye and glanced at Ellie as she woke, stretching a little and rubbing the heels of her hands over her face.

"How much further?" she asked him, looking out the window.

"Half an hour," he said. "How do you want to approach it?"

"Get off the interstate at Hays. Come down the 96 and we'll bypass the city and get onto Railway Avenue. We need to get to the sigils painted on us, but I think the first look should be on foot, cut across to Dike Road."

He nodded. "Just us?"

"Yeah," Ellie said, looking back at Sariel. "Chasina might feel you, if you get too close too soon."

The Watcher inclined his head. "She might."

"We've got cover on the other side of the road, but no closer than a couple of hundred feet," she said to Dean. "It's too iffy with the projectors, even if they come outside, which they won't, not now."

"A diversion?"

"Maybe," she said thoughtfully. "Something that won't worry them over much –"

She stared at the windshield fixedly, thinking about what they could do to draw the attention of the firstborn in a way that wouldn't raise their suspicions.

"Yeah, something ordinary, but chaotic, maybe."

"We've got people," Dean looked across at her. "We don't have to keep this a single action plan."

"No," Ellie agreed, turning to look at him. "You're right. We could do a couple of things. They've never seen Rudy's crew, or Jim and Ginny."

"What sort of things?" Sariel leaned over the back of the seat between them.

Ellie smiled at Dean. "Just your basic, everyday bad luck and then some perfectly understandable visits?"

Dean nodded. It was a start.

* * *

_**Great Bend, Kansas. March 27.**_

The mix of blood and herbs itched incessantly as they lay under the trees that crowded the riverbank, across the road from the warehouse. Dean shunted the awareness of the itch aside, looking through the binoculars at the flat side of the building, unrelieved by windows or doors. There was a large freight door on the eastern side of the building, and a small postern door next to it. Other than that, the walls were solid, a line of narrow clerestory windows up under the roofline, and four skylights in the roof itself, all on the southern side.

Beside him, Ellie scanned the area around the building. There were stacks of steel pipe, all sizes, to the left of the building but they were no closer than a hundred feet, within the projector's range, but not close enough to be a guaranteed shot, especially not with a tranquiliser dart. She focussed her attention on the two roads, looking at the sides and shoulders.

Dean's light tap on her arm brought her attention back to where they were and she lowered the glasses, nodding very slightly as he started to ease himself back down the bank. She put the glasses in the small pack and followed him down toward the water's edge, moving soundlessly on hands and toes.

"Not a chance at that building, night or day, right?" He looked at her.

"No," she said, nose wrinkling up. "No, they picked the right place this time."

"So, car crash?" He tilted his head back toward the road. "Up a little ways, maybe a head-on?"

"That would be the most believable, I think," she agreed, rolling to her feet and starting back along the river edge to where they'd left the car. "Sariel and Oran can do it. They'll make it believable."

"We'll have … what? Ambulance, fire brigade, cops … fire brigade would be the most believable for a visit?"

"Yeah. We'll take a couple out with the short range darts and substitute – Guilliame and Vincent, I think."

"They won't freeze up?" He didn't like the idea of putting someone in that position he didn't know. The whole situation was too delicate already.

Ellie shook her head. "No, they'll take them out. We'll come in right behind them, drive up with Rudy and Carl and just hit them hard."

"Everyone else on back up, or coming in after us?"

Ellie rubbed her forehead. "Coming in after us, I think. I want to be able to search for the kids as fast as possible."

"Carl's pickup will be warded; it'll carry at least five."

"Yeah."

"When do you want to do it?" He looked up as they reached the bend in the river and started bearing to the right, to cross the road. "Not today."

"No," Ellie agreed readily. "We'll set it up for tomorrow morning, not too early. We'll need a couple of anonymous phone calls as well."

* * *

Dean looked around the room, filled now with faces familiar and unfamiliar, every one of them looking at him. He leaned back against the counter, feeling the press of Ellie's arm against his, and cleared his throat.

"The building's hopeless. There's clear ground all around it, and a security system watching the approaches from all sides. We can't take it without risking the kids." He glanced at Sariel, standing to his right. "Sariel and Oran will provide a diversion, around nine-thirty tomorrow morning, a head-on collision in two cars. We'll advise emergency services, wait till they get there and then go in on the pretext of being a part of the accident scene."

"Guilliame and Vincent will take point," he continued, looking at the two men from Rudy's team. "They'll take out whoever answers the door. We'll follow them in and hit whoever we see next as hard as we can – hollow-points only, no darts, we can drug them once they're down."

Ellie had suggested that. The guns were easier to aim and had a better range, and they would work on the firstborn effectively, give them the time to inject the muscle relaxants at their leisure.

"Once they're incapacitated, we'll get the kids and go."

"What do we do with the nephilim?" Steve frowned at him. "Leave them there to try this again?"

Ellie shook her head. "Shamsiel, Idan and Tagi will keep them under sedation and in a holy oil circle until Amaros and Araquiel can be told. Amaros will have to deal with Heaven."

"Hold on a minute there. They killed a lot of our people, people who didn't deserve what they got," Jeremy said coldly. "You might be ready to turn the other cheek, Ellie, but I don't think I'm all that comfortable with just lettin' them get away with it."

There was a murmur of assent from the room, the hunters looking at each other as feelings rose.

"That's not our job," Dean said, raising his voice slightly. "Everyone here came voluntarily. Everyone we've lost was there by choice, no one forced them to come along," he paused, looking around the faces staring at him. "I don't like it much either, but we're not in the revenge business. You want that, then it would be better if you left now."

He'd felt the same way as most of them, he thought, waiting to see who would argue, who would move. Ellie had pointed out that the overall threat, the power of the seven to stir the factions in Heaven, had been negated. Once the children were removed, they couldn't open the circle again and their fate rested with whatever the Watchers and the angels negotiated. He'd realised that while killing them in a fight wouldn't have bothered him, cutting out their hearts while they were lying on the floor drugged and helpless would. He was a hunter, not a murderer.

He looked back at Jeremy when the room remained silent. "We're not executioners, Jeremy. We'll leave that to the angels, if it comes to that."

"I'm not cutting out their hearts while they're trussed and drugged and helpless," Rudy said loudly, looking around at the men and women. "Is that what you want to do?"

Jeremy looked away. The room stayed quiet.

"Alright. We need a couple of cars for our crash," Dean said, flicking an appreciative glance at Rudy. The red-haired hunter nodded slightly.

* * *

_**March 28.**_

"I thought we were gonna have a riot on our hands," Dean said softly to Ellie as they lay in the bed together. The briefing had taken another hour and everyone had left to get whatever rest they could before morning. He'd been surprised that no one had been talking of revenge when they'd left.

"So did I," she said tiredly, rolling against him. "I know you don't like it either."

He shook his head. "No, you're right. It's not up to us."

Listening to her breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of her ribs under his arm, he remembered the sigil carved into her back and her reluctance to tell him about it.

"Ellie," he said softly.

"Mmm."

"Why don't you want to talk about the key?"

She shifted slightly against him, and he felt her lashes brush against his skin as she opened her eyes.

"Amaros told me that when two join to form the key, it's dangerous," she said, a little unwillingly. She'd done what she had because she hadn't known if they were going to be able to take the firstborn at all. "They become a conduit for the power flowing from one plane to the next and, sometimes, that power can overwhelm their physical form."

His heart skipped a beat and he pulled in a deep breath to steady himself against the sudden rush of fear. "You mean it can kill them."

"Yeah," she admitted, letting her breath out and lifting herself onto her elbow to look at him. "With access to his strength, I thought it was a calculated risk, better than letting Maluch kill Adrienne, anyway."

"Why are you telling me now?" he asked, brows drawn together. Ellie lifted her shoulder slightly.

"Tomorrow we have a good chance of just getting them isolated and bound without any need to worry about the Circle or the key," she said. "I didn't want you to feel I was lying to you, or keeping something from you when –"

"When the situation didn't look likely to happen?" He moved up the bed a little, straightening. "But it was okay to keep it from me when you thought you might have to do it?"

She looked at him steadily. "What would you have done?"

He looked away. "I would've told you."

"Would you? Knowing how scared I'd be for you?"

"I've never lied to you," he said, lifting his hand and running his fingertips over the arch of her temple, under her cheekbone and along her jaw. "I've never been able to."

She dropped her gaze. "I didn't want to put you through that fear, when there's nothing either of us could do about it."

"You didn't want me to be ready to stop you," he countered softly.

Ellie looked up at him, acknowledging the truth of that. "That too."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to keep his imagination from feeding him all the previews it could come up with. "Why?"

She sighed. "John and Rosie need one of us, Dean. At least one of us."

"God, that's it?" He looked at her miserably. "You die, and I have to keep going, without you?"

"Hopefully neither of us dies," she said, trying to cut through what he was feeling, to short-circuit his imagination. He'd learned to discern his responsibilities, to mitigate his guilt, he'd learned that he deserved happiness and how to accept it. But he hadn't dealt with the fear of being left, not really. "And it could happen, to either one of us, any time."

"That doesn't make me feel better, you know," he said, looking away.

"I know."

She leaned closer to him, brushing her lips over his. "Since we don't know how much time we've got or what's going to happen next, do we waste it worrying about what might happen, or do we just say 'to hell with it' and make every minute count?"

His mouth twisted slightly. "No bumper-sticker talk, okay?"

She snorted softly. "Right."

"I know we're – we're not safe, Ellie," he said, his voice thick. "I just –"

"We've done okay, haven't we?" She looked into his eyes. "Survived everything, made it okay?"

"Yeah," he said cautiously. "Close, some of those times."

"Close is still making it." She kissed him again. "And neither of us is wired for safety first."

He was silent, leaning toward her, trying to lose himself in a deepening kiss. He knew that they weren't. He'd never thought about himself when it came to protecting others, putting his own life at risk to save someone else. He knew she hadn't either.

They had a plan. It would work.


	22. Chapter 22 Lost

**Chapter 22 Lost**

* * *

_**Great Bend, Kansas. March 29.**_

The room was dark and warm when Dean opened his eyes, a sideways glance at the lit clock on the nightstand showing he'd woken ten minutes before the alarm. He was on his side, one hand resting lightly on Ellie's hip, and he moved it slowly across her skin, eyes half-closed as his fingertips mapped their position by the location of the familiar ridges and whirls and puckers of her scars.

That one was Chicago, he knew, the two long-healed holes on either side of her belly-button. The long, thin ridges on her right side were Alaska. The short, knobbly line on the outside of her thigh was Maine. That was Vegas. Tennessee. Oregon. He knew the scars and knew what had caused them, knew how it had happened, what the job had been, with nearly all of them. They were a part of her and he knew them as well as he knew how she woke, with a deeply indrawn breath, the small noise she made in the back of her throat when she found something unbelievable, the crease that appeared between her brows when she was thinking through a decision or a plan of action. That she loved clever action films and had a secret weakness for an expensive Swiss chocolate, listened to every kind of music and had perfect pitch but virtually no range when it came to singing. Knew that she loved things with history and absorbed knowledge like a sponge, that she didn't care what anyone thought of her except him. Knew those things without thinking about them, as easy as breathing.

He heard her pull in a deep breath, her ribcage lifting under his wrist, and smiled as she rolled over to him, her arms slipping around him, one thigh sliding over his, warm and solid against him. He shifted onto his back and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, breathing in the scent of her, his lips brushing over her temple.

"Alarm's going to go off in about two minutes," he murmured against her skin.

"Mmm." It was barely a sound, just a vibration of her mouth against his collarbone and he closed his eyes, feeling her heartbeat on his ribs, her breath light on his skin.

* * *

"Oran wants to do a car chase," he said, carrying the two cups of coffee from the kitchen counter to the table, handing her one on the way.

"Of course he does," Ellie said dryly, looking through her duffle for a shirt. She stood beside the bed, in jeans and a white bra, the grey dawn light coming through the gaps between the curtains tinting her pale skin to silver. Dean looked at her as she dragged out a clean shirt and lifted her arms to pull it over her head. The scars were hardly visible in the ghostly light, but he could see the outlines of her ribs, the faint curves of her muscles. She was wearing a necklace, a smoky gemstone of some kind on a silver chain, settled just at the top of the valley between her breasts. One of the facets caught the light before the shirt covered it.

"Who does he want to drive the chase car?" Her voice was muffled from the inside of the shirt.

"Idan, or Tagi, I think," he said, sipping his coffee and looking down at the weapons that they'd laid out on the table. Angel swords, their automatics with extra clips loaded with dum-dums, the wide, serrated knife and her longer, finer demon blade. Two close-range projectors and a dozen darts delivering 1 mg of anaesthetic per dose. Guilliame and Vincent had another two, and Carl and Rudy had a pair as well.

"So long as he hits Sariel fair and square and makes it look real, they can re-enact Beverly Hills Cop for all I care," she commented tartly, tucking the shirt into her jeans and picking up the lightweight black canvas jacket from the end of the bed.

He snorted at the image. "Used to be me doing all the heavy-duty driving work."

She looked at him, one brow raised slightly. "You wouldn't walk away from a crash like that. They will," she said, just the hint of a warning in her voice.

"They picked up three cars this morning, anyway," he changed the topic casually, eyes crinkling slightly as he acknowledged the truth of her comment. He looked back at her as she walked to the table, pulling on the jacket.

"Good, so we're all set?"

"Yep."

* * *

"Did you hear that tapping noise when I started the engine?" Dean asked, leaning back in the driver's seat of the Impala.

"Yeah, I was thinking it wouldn't be a bad idea if you took a month off, after this, and spent some time working on her, getting her back into prime shape," Ellie said, her gaze fixed on the road just visible through the trees, the binoculars pressed against her eyes.

"Not a bad idea," he agreed slowly, turning to look at her. "We gonna get enough time for that? What do you want to use as a vehicle if I take her out of service?"

"Sam and Adam should be fit enough soon to cover us for a while," she said. "We could buy something to run around in while you do it."

They were parked along the edge of Dike Road, nearly four hundred yards from the corner, on a rise that gave them a good view of the road and warehouse. Dean glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. The crash was timed for nine-fifteen.

"It wouldn't be a bad way to introduce John to cars, you know," she added a moment later, lowering the glasses to look at him. "He doesn't have to get hands-on, but he'd love to see how it all works."

He nodded. "Yeah. I was eight when I started helping Bobby."

"You were a prodigy," she said with a slight smile. "Bobby told me all about it."

She watched him duck his head slightly and lifted the glasses again.

"Once we're done here, I wouldn't mind a drive up to Sioux Falls, pay my respects," Dean said quietly. Ellie hid her surprise at the request, but he felt it anyway.

"I know, not really my style," he said with a slight shrug. "Just feels like I need to."

"Okay," she said, adjusting the focus on the glasses a little. "We can do that."

In the distance, they heard a whining of an engine being pushed close to the red line, and Dean turned to look up the road, eyes narrowing as he tracked the car by the gears and changes in the engine notes.

"One minute," he said and Ellie nodded, watching the gap.

An orange Cutlass roared up the road, fishtailing wildly as it took the gravelled corner too fast, the mustard-coloured Ford right on its tail. Both cars shot past the warehouse and Ellie saw a burgundy station wagon coming the other way through the gap in the trees.

They heard the crash clearly as the Cutlass hit the station wagon head on, the high, rending shriek of metal and a muffled explosion, high-pitched revving of the Ford's engine as Idan swerved around the wreckage and screamed away. Dean could see the column of fire shooting up into the sky even without the binoculars, followed by roiling clouds of black smoke.

"That looked realistic," he muttered uncomfortably.

"Yeah," Ellie said, grimacing as she lowered the glasses. "Call it in."

* * *

In four minutes the road was filled with vehicles, the police barricading either end and fire trucks surrounding the inferno of the two cars. An ambulance was parked further away, no doubt anticipating the need for body bags but not care. They watched Guilliame and Vincent slip onto the scene in the anonymous yellow fire retardant suits of the fire brigade and Dean started the engine.

"How close do you think we can get?" he asked, shifting into gear and pulling out.

"Not real close. Just behind the trees at the end of the block, and we'll walk from there," Ellie said, leaning forward to put the glasses back on the floor and pick up the small gear bag holding the darts and projectors. "Even if we try to move onto that blank wall, there're cameras along the roof line and they can eyeball us, warded or not."

He eased the car down the road and pulled over in the shadows of the trees that lined the corner, turning off the engine. Ellie brushed her fingers over his arm, and he looked through the windshield at Guilliame and Vincent, now dressed in the full uniform of the firefighters, crossing the open stretch of gravel to the warehouse entrance.

"Two minutes?"

He nodded, pulling out his .45 auto and double-checking the mag. "Can you see Carl and Rudy?"

"Yeah," Ellie looked up the road to the half-hidden clearing on the other side of the road. "They're moving."

"Let's do this."

They were taking a chance, Dean thought as they ran across the open ground to the back of the warehouse, meeting Carl and Rudy there, and moving around the corner together, that the firstborn would be focussed on the two men approaching and the spectacular crash up the road, rather than the security cameras on the other side of the building. It was a risk, but one he thought was reasonable, given the dealings he'd had with the nephilim so far. Not so much organised, and easily distracted, for the most part.

Stopping at the corner, he dropped to the ground, watching the hunters approaching the building. He froze when his neck began to prickle, turning his head, looking around them, a frown drawing his brows together. Beside him, Ellie lifted one brow questioningly. He shook his head slightly, getting to his knees, the auto in his hand cocked.

They heard the door opening and the low murmur of voices. And then there were four men around them, appearing in the blink of an eye, the one closest to him smiling a little as he spoke.

"Ssshh." And touched his forehead.

* * *

_**Jurf al Darawish, Jordan. March 29.**_

Amaros looked up as his brother entered the small, mud-brick hut. He was kneeling beside the bed of a little girl, her mother standing a few feet away, hands clenched tightly together, her face hidden by the dull black cloth of the chadri and burqa.

"We have a slight situation," Araquiel said softly, looking down at the child. Her face was pale, beaded with sweat, her body shaken by tremors every few minutes as the infection raged through it.

"A moment," Amaros said and closed his eyes, laying his hand lightly over the child's forehead.

The girl's eyes flew open and she arched up in the narrow cot, her mother whimpering at the sight. Amaros lifted his hand and she collapsed, her eyes closing.

"She will rest now," he said to the mother. "The infection is gone but she will be weak."

The woman dropped beside the cot, laying her hand over her daughter's forehead, feeling the cool skin and hearing the steadiness of her breathing. She looked up at the fallen angel, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude.

Amaros smiled and bowed his head, turning and walking from the tiny house. Araquiel leaned on the wall beside the door.

"What kind of a situation?" The Watcher asked, turning to walk along the narrow, dusty road into the small town. Araquiel fell into step beside him.

"It would appear that Michael has become impatient and taken matters into his own hands," Araquiel said drolly, shrugging as Amaros looked at him. The road opened into a square, battered woven awnings shading the front of the mud-brick buildings around its edge. "He's helped the firstborn to trap the hunters, and he will allow them to open the door –"

"With the Host waiting for them when it does?" Amaros guessed shrewdly, stopping at the round stone well that sat in the centre of the small square. He dropped the hide bucket into its cool deeps and drew up some water, washing his face and hands.

"Yes," Araquiel confirmed. "Castiel and the others who believe that Michael is wrong have been imprisoned. I don't think we can just sit on the fence and watch what happens any longer."

"No." Amaros looked around the square absently. "No, we can't."

"Can you reclaim your power?"

"I don't know," the copper-haired Watcher said, looking at Araquiel. "He is not exactly renowned for changing His mind once something's been decided, you know." He looked down thoughtfully. "But it's been a long, long time since I asked for a favour."

"Then you should have some stored up, yes?"

Amaros smiled wryly. "You really do fit in here, Araquiel, your faith is astounding."

* * *

_**Great Bend, Kansas. March 30.**_

Dean struggled toward consciousness, a formless urgency beating at him. He rolled over, feeling his arms pinned behind him, the sharp bite of rope around his wrists, the sting of raw, scraped flesh under it.

Opening his eyes, he saw Rudy lying close by, the red-haired hunter's eyes closed.

"Hey," he said, the word coming out broken and gravelly from a dry throat.

"You 'wake, Dean?"

Carl, he thought disjointedly, behind him, somewhere. He rolled over again, grimacing as the movement brought more pain and a deep ache in one side. Someone had laid the boot into him while he'd been out, he thought, feeling the creak in his ribs.

"Yeah," he said, sighting Carl in the dimness of the room, crumpled against one wall. "What happened?"

"You tell me," Carl said, wriggling a little higher against the wall. "One minute we were alone, waiting to go in, the next there were four guys standing around and they touched us and that was it. I woke up here about fifteen minutes ago."

_Angels_, Dean thought, closing his eyes in frustration. How wasn't important. Only angels could zap in and out like that and put you out with a touch. Michael. The certainty followed the thought. _What the hell was going on?_

He rocked himself slightly, shifting his weight over his hip and managing to get upright, a grunt of pain escaping him. Looking around the room, he could see Rudy and Carl near him. Further away, two more men lay in the deeper shadows by the door. "That Guilliame and Vincent?"

Carl nodded. "Yeah."

He turned further, unable to see anyone else. "Where's Ellie?"

Carl looked away. "I don't know. She wasn't here when I woke."

Of course not, Dean thought. She was the other half of the key and Maluch would certainly use her for that. He remembered the white light spilling out in his dream and forced those images and thoughts down. Figure out a way to get out. That's what's important now.

He pushed against Rudy's leg with his foot. "Wake up, man."

The hunter stirred, forehead creasing up as he opened his eyes. "What happened?"

"Ambush," Dean said sourly. "Angels."

"What?" Rudy looked at him. "I thought the angels wanted to kill the firstborn?"

"Apparently Michael couldn't wait."

"So he's helping them?" Rudy asked incredulously.

Dean thought of the archangel. "I'm guessing he's got an army hanging around upstairs waiting for the door to open so that he can kill them, us and anyone else who gets in his way."

Rudy looked around the room. "Where's Ellie?"

Dean's mouth thinned out and he shook his head. "Taken to be used as the key, I think."

"How long have we got?"

"I don't know. Can you see my watch?" He turned his back to the hunter, listening as Rudy moved closer to him.

"Shit," Rudy said softly.

"What?"

"It's March 30 now."

The sound of the lock dragged their attention to the door, and Dean felt a surge of anger as Michael walked into the room, the construct he favoured filling the room with light. Behind the archangel, Maluch and Chasina stopped in the doorway, looking around at the hunters.

"Where are the rest of you?" Maluch turned his attention to Dean.

"They're around somewhere," Dean said, hoping that they'd hidden themselves in the warded cars as soon as the four of them had disappeared.

He looked at Michael. "Hypocritical much, Michael?"

The archangel looked down at him and smiled without a trace of humour. "The firstborn needed my help. I saw no reason not to aid them."

Dean looked at Maluch. "Except that when the door opens, your army will be waiting there to kill us all?"

The firstborn's face hardened. "We have amnesty."

Rudy laughed derisively. "From an angel? Who are you kidding?"

"If Michael's being such a pal, ask him to open the doorway for you with Gabriel's horn," Dean suggested, looking from Maluch to Chasina. He saw doubt in her eyes as they flicked to the archangel.

"We can open it ourselves." Maluch glared at him and Dean wondered how much trust the nephilim was putting in Michael.

"By killing the humans who make the key," Dean countered angrily. "Wouldn't you rather go to Heaven without innocent blood on your hands?"

"Your wife and your brother's daughter are the two halves of the key, meant to be joined," Chasina said sharply. "Why would they die?"

"Because they're human!" he almost shouted back at her. "They won't survive the power channelled through them."

"Says you," Michael said softly. "And who knows where you come by your information, Winchester."

"From your big brother, Michael." Dean twisted around to stare at him.

"Amaros?" The archangel looked away dismissively. "He Fell four thousand years ago, choosing to be apart."

"Yeah, and I see you're handling it real well," Dean said sardonically.

"Don't presume to talk to me about familial relationships, Dean," Michael said coldly. "Yours have not been any better."

"Enough," Maluch said, looking from Dean to Michael in annoyance. He glanced over his shoulder at the four angelic vessels behind them. "You will witness our ascent. Bring them. The Circle is ready."

* * *

The centre of the warehouse was empty and open, the concrete floor marked out in hundreds of interlocking and interwoven circles. The scents of myrrh and frankincense, sandalwood and jessamine and mint and sage filled the air from the bowls scattered across the intricate design. Candles flickered and burned at every junction of the finely drawn lines and arcs, in every colour, and gold and silver dust marked out the centres of the circles.

Dean pulled in a deep breath as he saw them, the nephilim and children making a circle in the centre of the maze and lying on the floor in their midst, Ellie and Adrienne, separated by a few feet, both unconscious. He saw a small, deep cut under Ellie's eye, still trickling a thin thread of blood.

"Daddy!" Rosie's voice rose shrilly as she saw him, Idra's hand restraining her from moving. On the other side of the circle, he saw John's head rise slowly, green eyes wide with fear. The sight of his son's face, panic stricken and afraid, was a knife inside of him, twisting savagely. He strained against the ropes that held his arms behind him, sweat beading on his forehead as the line creaked under the pressure he was exerting. The prickle of the nerves at the back of his neck was a constant goad.

The angel holding him forced him to his knees a few yards from the circles, the others pushing Rudy and Carl, Guilliame and Vincent down on the ground as well. Michael and the four angelic vessels moved to stand to one side of the room, away from the circle. And Maluch and Chasina took their positions in the ring that surrounded the centre.

_Do something_, his mind shrieked at him, and he braced himself to roll forward, his eyes widening in shock as he realised he couldn't move a muscle. His head snapped around to look at Michael and he saw the small smile playing on the archangel's mouth. They weren't here to be witnesses, and he'd known that. They were here to be killed when the door opened, and they would be held in their place until that happened. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rudy's face redden, the hunter struggling against the same compulsion that was holding him still and he saw Michael's smile grow wider. The nephilim joined hands, reaching out and taking the children's as well, until the circle was complete and all of them closed their eyes.

Dean watched helplessly as light began to fill the circle, spilling out along the lines on the floor, brightening and shifting colour as it passed from one junction to another, lighting the faces of the firstborn, the children, the angels watching on the edge of the room, the other hunters, flickering and glowing and filling the space. One by one the candles went out as the light reached them and the bowls of herbs and spices ignited, scenting the air strongly, the faint blue smoke wreathing into patterns above the circles, curling and twisting toward the central ring and forming solid lines and curves around the Circle of the Nine.

In the centre of the Circle, Ellie and Adrienne lifted from the floor, slowly at first, then more quickly as they were carried around the perimeter by the force that held them off the ground. Lit by the eldritch light, Dean saw Ellie's eyes open suddenly, rolled up and only showing the whites as she and the baby were drawn closer and closer together in a diminishing, rising spiral. Adrienne's eyes were also open and rolled up, and their arms reached out for each other without volition, his protests screaming unvoiced inside his head when he saw their fingers touch. Like magnets of opposite polarity, the woman and the child snapped together, Ellie's arms enclosing Adrienne tightly, heart to heart, her head bowed over the child's. And something began to leak from them, spilling out into the room.

It wasn't a light he could see with his eyes, he thought incoherently, unable to take his gaze from the pair twisting high in the air above the Circle. There were colours in it, but they defied definition, as dark as they were light, more like the colours of oil on water than anything else his mind could come up with as it desperately tried to understand what he was looking at. A wind stirred the hair of the members of the Circle, blowing thinly from the reaches that the doorway was breaching, deathly cold, holding an acrid, metallic taste to it that made him gag a little as he breathed it in involuntarily.

Where the two were joined, the wind and the light that wasn't light poured through and sometimes he could see them through it, sometimes they were hidden as if by solid darkness, and as it got stronger he thought he could see their skeletons, as if their flesh had become completely transparent, could see their bones turning to metal and the blood vessels filling up with the iridescent colours that were invisible to the eye but not to the mind.

Both stopped turning and the nine who made the Circle shuddered in unison.

Dean stared in disbelief as a real light, a shockingly vivid argentine light, spread out from the woman and child. He felt his scream reverberate in his chest but nothing emerged from his throat as he watched their heads tip back, and the light shifted from Adrienne to Ellie, pulsing in rhythmic beats, beats he was afraid matched the beating of her heart. The light grew brighter and the pulsing slowed and he realised he couldn't see her anymore, just a blazing glow where she'd been, though Adrienne was still visible.

The light grew brighter still and he slitted his eyes, trying to see through it, finally turning his head away, and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Even through the closed lids, he saw the light throb once more, saw the shadow of Sam's baby daughter falling. There was a concussive explosion and he was knocked backward, the force blowing out from where the light had been and tossing the Circle and the angels and the hunters back against the walls as if they were made of paper.

* * *

"Emergency, this is Unit Two, we have two men, third degree burns, multiple breaks, injuries, contusions, blood loss, shock, en route."

"Roger that, Unit Two, we're prepping surgery now, bring them in on the double," the radio crackled back at Jerry as he glanced at his partner. Steve's face was still waxy pale and sweating. Neither had ever seen two people with so many horrific injuries still living.

"You okay, Steve?" he asked, nervously watching the other man swallowing convulsively. "Don't think about it, man, just let it go. We're nearly there."

Steve nodded, keeping his gorge down by an act of will. He couldn't keep doing this, the nightmares had been bad enough after the three-car crash last year, but the two guys in the back were going to haunt his dreams for months.

The ambulance turned into Miller Street, and he slowed down as they approached the ER entrance, forgetting the speed hump and grimacing as the van lurched over it. There was a thump from the back and he turned wide, miserable eyes on Jerry.

"What was that?"

"I don't know," Jerry answered tersely, looking out the window. "Doc's here, let's get 'em unloaded and go and get a drink."

They climbed out and hurried to the back doors, opening them and securing them before climbing inside.

"What the fuck!?" Jerry looked from one empty gurney to the other in disbelief.

"Where the hell are the patients, Jerry?" The attending leaned in the back, looking at them.

"I have no fucking idea," Jerry said, shaking his head. "They were right here."

"Burns, contusions, blood loss, shock … you telling me they just jumped out?"

"Sir, I don't know what to tell you."

* * *

Dean opened his eyes as the brightness faded, twisting around to see a glowing doorway, suspended above the floor of the warehouse, filled with a gentle pearlescent light now, not the mind-hurting iridescent coruscations from between the planes, nor the brilliant argent light those had become. He could see figures stepping through it, and he tried to focus on the leader, tried to roll away from them, knowing who they had to be.

Amaros stepped onto the concrete and crouched down, picking up Adrienne and holding her in one arm, the enormous copper-red and nacreous wing that rose from behind his shoulder curving protectively around the child. He lifted his hand and pointed the sword it held at Michael, and the archangel was slammed backward and held, frozen against the wall as the four vessels of the other angels vanished.

"What have you done to yourself, Michael?"

"I have held the sanctity of Heaven and guarded the halls against abominations," Michael said furiously, struggling against his brother's invisible grip.

"You have raised yourself in hubris and betrayed every trust given you," Amaros contradicted him calmly.

Dean felt the ropes that bound him disappear and he rolled to his feet, crossing to Carl and pulling him up. Behind them, the door opened and Sariel walked in, followed by Oran and Idan, Tagi and Sima, Charlie, Marguerite, Red, Steve, Carmen and Jeremy, Michel, Garth, Ginny and Jim. The hunters spread out along the wall, and Sariel continued to Amaros, taking Adrienne from the angel, and hurrying back to the wall beside the door.

On the floor, the firstborn slowly got to their feet, backing away from the circles as they saw Amaros standing before the doorway and more figures moving half-seen in the soft light that flowed from it.

Dean walked slowly between Michael and Amaros, scooping Rosie into his arms and lifting John to his feet. Beside them, Marc and Laura got up slowly and followed him back to the hunters. He stood beside the Watcher, his eyes narrowed as they searched the room, barely aware of the confrontation between the two seraphs, playing out in front of him.

"You must have known that this –" Amaros gestured vaguely around the room. "- would not go unpunished, Michael."

"You think you are the one to punish me, brother?"

"As you believed you had to be the one to punish Lucifer, Michael."

"You have been a mortal a long time, Amaros," Michael said coolly. "Perhaps you are no longer the strongest of us."

"Perhaps," Amaros agreed readily. He gestured abruptly and Michael's arms fell to his sides, his hand darting immediately to the hilt of his sword.

Behind Amaros, stepping through the light-filled door, more angels emerged. Dean saw Castiel stop to one side of Amaros, the angel's gaze flicking to him briefly and back to Michael, gesturing to those who followed him to take their places along the other walls. The seraphim were glowing with their own light, no vessels containing them, only the constructs of their own minds realised as tall, graceful figures of impossible beauty and multihued wings, their restless rustling filling the warehouse softly as they moved.

Michael ran straight at Amaros and the enormous room rang and echoed with the clash of metal on metal as the two swords met. The first engagement was a flurry of blades, the angels circling each other warily, testing one another for strength and weakness, Michael driving in and deflected and driven back, Amaros wielding the long sword with a speed that the human watchers couldn't hope to see. The two swords flickered and burned as they met and swung, lit up by flames of alabaster and rose, their light reflecting from the angels' skin, tinting the shining feathers as their wings spread out and were drawn in with each turn and attack and defence, balancing the fighters.

"All this time, you were just waiting to come back, weren't you, brother?" Michael gasped as he parried a cut that scratched deeply along his cheekbone. "To reclaim what you said you hadn't wanted."

"No, Michael. I didn't want what you did," Amaros said, his long blade shifting up and down, wreathed in fire like his brother's, blocking each of Michael's attacks, seemingly without effort. "I wanted what I asked for, to be mortal, to teach, to watch over the creations of our Father."

"I don't believe you!" Michael feinted to the right, and spun back, wings lifting for balance as he thrust his sword at his brother's heart.

"I know," Amaros said mildly, stepping to one side, his parry carrying the other blade far to one side, Michael over-balancing from the deflection. "And now it is your turn to understand mortality."

He lengthened his stride, swinging around behind Michael and slashing downwards. The scream that filled the warehouse was instant and excruciating. Every human, Watcher and nephilim dropped to their knees and pressed their hands tightly over their ears as it went on and on and blood jetted from the feathered and bony spurs on the archangel's shoulder blades that were all that remained of Michael's wings.

Michael's sword clattered to the concrete as he dropped to his knees, the white fire dying. He reached hesitantly over his shoulder and looked at his hand when he pulled it back, the fingers coated in blood.

"I am not Fallen," he whispered, staring down at the floor in helpless disbelief.

"You will live out your years as a mortal." Amaros stood before him, his sword held lightly in one hand, a single white feather adhering to the end of the blade.

Amaros saw his brother's head drop to his chest and he turned to look at the firstborn nephilim.

"You wanted to return to Heaven. Now you can," he said, gesturing to the doorway. "You might not find all that you seek in its halls, but you will not be harmed by any who dwells there, provided you can enter."

Idra and Lazio stepped forward immediately, and the hunters watched them as they passed into the pearly light. Chasina looked at her father and shook her head, stepping back. Chuma looked at Sariel as well, his face twisting up, the symmetric beauty of his features distorted with his emotions.

"My father," he said, licking his lips nervously. "He still lives?"

Sariel nodded and Chuma turned away, walking to stand beside Chasina and taking the hand she offered him. Maluch looked at them sourly.

"After everything we've been through, everything we've done, you're not going?"

"No," Chasina said, shaking her head. "It might be cowardly, Maluch, but I'll take the life I know." She glanced at her father. "With the family I have."

"A life of mortality amongst monkeys," Maluch sneered, staring at the hunters. "You can have it." He turned abruptly and stepped into the light …

And stopped, in mid-stride.

Amaros looked at him thoughtfully.

"Why isn't he moving?" Chuma asked, looking from Maluch to the archangel.

"There are some things one must do before one can enter, even when entry is a birthright and the invitation is given."

"Maluch, ask for forgiveness," Chasina called out and Amaros turned to her, smiling slightly.

"He cannot hear you," he said, glancing back at the figure frozen at the edge of the doorway, caught in between the planes of Heaven and earth. "He cannot die, nor will he live. He will have all the time of eternity to learn that repentance and forgiveness are essential to all creatures."

He turned to the ranks of the seraphim who'd followed him and inclined his head toward the door. The angels walked through Maluch as they returned to Heaven, his outline fading in and out as each passed through, their own outlines becoming indistinct as they disappeared into the warm and gentle light. When the last had disappeared, Amaros lifted his hand and the doorway closed. The room dimmed then brightening slightly as the moon moved away from the Sun, the eclipse ending, and sunshine began to flood in through the windows.

Dean moved from the doorway slowly toward the angels, looking around the interior as Michael got slowly to his feet. He stopped in front of the fallen angel, his face stony.

"Where's Ellie?"

The archangel's face was haggard with pain, and it spasmed as he looked at the man in front of him, settling into lines of forced indifference as he shrugged carelessly.

"She was just human."

Dean stared at him, and the rage that filled him came suddenly and without warning, a rage that encompassed the years of being hunted by the archangel, of being lied to and manipulated by him, of losing her when she'd left to protect him from Michael, of the angel's inhuman and callous certainty that he knew better, the ingratitude and the carelessness when he'd faced his brother on the field in a cemetery in Kansas, preparing to kill him, and the utter indifference he showed now. It rose through him like a wildfire, wiping out every thought and feeling but one.

He turned, his hand snapping out to the side for the angel sword that Castiel held in one hand, snatching it from the angel. He was close to Michael before anyone could move to stop him, driving the tip of the sword under the ribcage and up into the heart, his face inches from the fallen's as he stared into the unearthly blue eyes.

"Like you," he hissed, twisting the sword sharply.

Michael's face froze in an expression of disbelieving shock then light glowed inside him, flooding out through his wide eyes and open mouth, burning through the mortal construct as Dean pulled the sword out and let it fall to the floor. For a moment the light flashed brightly through the room then it died out and dissipated, leaving the charred and blackened remains at Dean's feet.

Amaros looked down at his brother, wondering if this was how it was meant to be, Michael's death removing any chance of him stepping back into the mortal life he'd loved. He bowed his head resignedly. Nothing happened that wasn't his Father's Will.

"Where is she?" Dean demanded of the archangel, turning to look at Castiel, at the hunters lined against the wall, knowing the answer, somewhere inside of him, but unable to face it.

"I told her the power was too great for a human to sustain, Dean," Amaros lifted his head and looked at the man, his eyes filled with compassion. "She drew from me, enough to shield the child, but flesh and blood is not made for the energy of the universe to pass through. She's gone. You will have to accept that."

"No." Dean turned away from him, looking around the room again, his eyes searching the shadows and the corners. "No. _No_. This is not what – this can't be …"

Amaros looked at Dean. There was nothing he could do for him, not now. Nothing ever really died, energy returning to energy. But that thought would not comfort the man right now.

* * *

Dean walked up and down the long room, quartering it methodically, his eyes scanning the ground, looking for anything that would prove that it hadn't happened. Ashes and blood and wax had spilled and smeared over the floor and he'd been over the same ground twice before his eye caught the glinting facet of light on the floor. The smoky crystal on its silver chain was intact, unblemished. He dropped to one knee slowly, reaching out to pick it up. It was the one she'd been wearing. He didn't understand how it could be there.

Castiel stood beside him and he looked up at the angel. The sorrow in the deep blue eyes was more than he could face, and he looked away, getting to his feet, tucking the pendant into his pocket reflexively.

"Sariel is taking the nephilim back to Oregon," Cas said quietly. "The hunters are ready to leave as well."

He nodded, turning to see Charlie and Rudy standing there with the children. It didn't matter how he felt, he thought, looking at John and Rosie. She'd been right about that. One of them had to be there. Pulling in a deep breath, he looked at Castiel.

"Right."

He followed him to the others, picking up Rosie and taking John's hand automatically.

"I can take them, Dean," Charlie said softly, putting her hand on his arm. He looked at her, his face expressionless.

"No."

She flinched back a little at the coldness in his voice, then nodded and turned to Rudy. "Are you taking Sam's kids? I'll ride with you."

"Yeah," he said, shifting the baby in his arms slightly. "Dean, we'll be right behind you, if you need anything."

Dean nodded slightly in acknowledgement of the offer, forgetting it almost immediately as he walked out of the room. He couldn't escape the feeling that he was deliberately abandoning her, deliberately giving up. His heart contracted tightly in his chest and he slowed, feeling his son's fingers tighten on his.

Someone had driven the Impala to the front of the building and he looked at it blankly, opening the back door and watching John settle in and buckle up, putting Rosie down and fastening the lap belt over her.

"Where's Mommy?" she asked, looking past him at the building behind them.

He didn't want to say it out loud. Not yet. Not ever. His throat was closed tight and he was only hanging on by the thinnest thread of control. John was looking at him as well and he saw the knowledge blossom in his son's eyes, tears filling them slowly.

"Mommy's gone, Rosie," John said softly. "She went with the angels."

"Why?" Rosie looked from John to her father, a small crease appearing between her brows.

"I'll explain later, okay?" he said quietly, his voice rough and thick and catching in his throat as he registered that familiar expression. "Let's – we need to get home."

Getting into the driver's side, he glanced to the passenger seat, seeing the small gear bag lying there in the well below the glove box. In it, he knew, was her notebook, filled with her handwriting, something else he couldn't look at, couldn't think about. He dragged his gaze back to the parking lot and turned the key, hearing the engine rumble into life, the stereo coming on and _Ramble On_ playing softly through the speakers. His hand snapped out and hit the stop button, the sudden silence ringing in the closed car.

* * *

_**I-80 W, Wyoming. April 1.**_

He got as far as Rock Springs before exhaustion settled into his bones and he realised that he couldn't see the road or the other traffic properly anymore. The motel was just off the highway and he pulled in, not noticing the Cougar that pulled in behind him.

Getting a room, he drove to the slot and opened the door, then picked up the children and carried them inside, both still sound asleep. He took off their shoes but left them dressed, tucking them into one of the queen beds and turning out all but the bathroom light as he brought in the gear bag and locked the car.

"Dean?" Rudy walked around the back of the car.

"Yeah?" He turned around, frowning slightly at the sight of the other hunter. "Thought you and Charlie were taking shifts?"

"Yeah, we are, just wanted to make sure you're okay." Rudy lifted a shoulder self-consciously.

Dean closed his eyes briefly and looked back at him. "Yeah, look, I'm okay. You need to get Marc and Laura and Adrienne back to Sam and Trish as soon as you possibly can, alright?"

"I don't –"

"I'll be fine," he cut the other man off brusquely. "We'll be fine. Just go home, get them home to their parents."

He turned away without waiting for answer and unlocked the door to the room, closing it behind him and locking it again. Putting the bag down, he leaned against the door for a long moment, waiting to hear the Cougar's engine start up. Eventually it did and he listened to it as it pulled out of the lot and headed back to the interstate.

He didn't need anyone hovering around him. Didn't want anyone around. Glancing at John and Rosie, he knew he had to keep it together for them, couldn't afford to let anything out. He didn't want to scare them, didn't want to add to the burdens they were already carrying. He could do it if it was just them, could pretend that Ellie was just somewhere else, and that helped. He couldn't do that with another adult around.

He thought of heading north, going up to Sioux Falls and seeing Bobby's grave, but the thought crushed him with its connotations and he shook his head, going to the small table and sitting down, staring at the scratched formica surface without seeing it.

He needed sleep. Needed to sleep and forget for a while, but the truth was he was scared to close his eyes and relinquish his armour. He got up and walked back to the bag, picking it up and setting it on the end of the second bed. Unzipping it, he felt around in it, fingers pushing past the weapons and ammunition, past the binoculars and cloth bags and the smooth, ceramic bottle of holy oil. They found what he was looking for in the bottom corner, and he pulled it out, looking at it. The small plastic bottle was full of pills, the typed label affixed to the side showed an ancient expiry date. Jo had given him the bottle in Duluth, to dull the pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder. He opened the cap and tipped three of the small white pills into his palm, looking at them for a long moment before he tossed into them into his mouth and dry-swallowed them. He put the lid back on and zipped up the bag again, putting it on the floor and tucking the bottle into his jacket pocket. They might dull the pain enough for him to get to sleep and sleep without dreams.

He turned off the lights and stripped down to t-shirt and shorts, pulling back the covers tiredly, unsure if the increasing weariness he could feel seeping through him was a result of the pharmaceuticals, or the aftermath of everything that had happened that day.

Closing his eyes, he didn't try to stop the images that rolled unsought behind his lids. He didn't know how to do this. Didn't know how to let go. He didn't _want_ to let go, he admitted finally to himself as the images began to blur and darkness filled him up.

* * *

_**I-84 W, Idaho. April 2.**_

Dean stared at the road, ribboning out ahead of him, the flat glare of the thin sunshine bouncing off the near-white concrete spearing into his eyes. He was scarcely aware of the headache that had crept up from the tense muscles at the base of his neck, barely aware of the noises of the two children who sat in the back, playing some quiet game or other, hardly aware of the signs that flashed by as he drove north and west, his destination getting closer and closer and his dread at seeing the house, seeing it without her, rising steadily inside of him.

"_What do I do if I lose everyone, Ellie?"_ he'd asked her, eight years ago in a hotel room with the taste of Blue Label on his tongue and fear squeezing him tightly. _"You start again,"_ she'd told him, gently but without pity.

_Start again._

His fingers tightened on the wheel, the knuckles showing white through the skin. That wasn't possible.

He glanced at the dash, seeing the fuel gauge sitting close to empty. Another sign flashed by, advising the exit for Jerome and he changed lanes, lifting his hand and looking at his watch. It was time to stop anyway, get the kids something to eat, let them stretch their legs a little.

Pulling into the parking lot, he looked around at the stores that lined it. Two fast food places. A diner that had seen better days. A motel on the other side, next to the playground. The gas station. A small convenience store. Ellie would've gone to the convenience store, he knew. Gotten them a loaf of bread, fresh sandwich fixings, whatever fruit was for sale, made their lunch herself. The knowledge brought a stabbing pain to his chest and he pushed it away, turning into the slots in front of the burger place, and turning off the engine.

_Start again._

"No," he murmured to himself as he got out of the car and opened the back door. "I can't."

_Don't want to, you mean._ The small voice in his head said very faintly.

_That's right. I don't fucking want to_, he snarled back at it, slamming the driver's door shut.

_You have to let go._

He ignored that, helping Rosie unbuckle her belt.

* * *

The burgers had been alright. Edible. Just. He sat at the picnic table by the small playground and watched Rosie and John on the swings, his palms sweating and his heartbeat erratic and the sound of his breathing ragged over the noises that drifted over from the lot behind him. Held in by the walls in his mind, behind the threadbare control he could still exert, pain was waiting and he could feel it, building up, seeking the cracks and fissures, pressing at him. He didn't want to go back to the big house they'd shared, knowing that everything in it, every single object, the walls and floors and ceilings themselves would drown him in memories and suffocate him in that pain.

It was their home too, he thought, looking at his children, knowing he wouldn't move them elsewhere. They needed as much stability as he could possibly give them now, needed the security of the familiar surroundings, that something that hadn't changed in the mess that had become their lives. But it was going to kill him.

They would be home just after dark, if he kept going straight through. He looked around at the motel nearby. Or they could stay here the night, go home in the morning. For a moment, the temptation was overwhelming, and he almost got up to go to the office and get them a room. Then he slumped down again. Putting it off wasn't going to help. He would have to go home sooner or later.

He watched them run around the equipment, John chasing his sister who was shrieking in mock-fear of her brother's tickling fingers. He didn't know how to explain to them what had happened, what it meant. He didn't know how to get the words out, even. He couldn't remember his father telling him until a long time after the fire. He didn't even have a body to burn or bury.

He stood abruptly, shunting those thoughts aside. "John! Rosie! Come on, we're going."

They looked up and ran over straight away, following him obediently to the car, John's hand wrapped around his sister's as they crossed the parking lot. Dean watched his son adjust Rosie's belt carefully then put on his own. The sight brought a visceral agony to his heart. He remembered doing the same thing with Sam, when they'd ridden in the back seat of the black car, their father driving them across country to another town, another motel, another hunt.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon. April 2.**_

The car bumped gently over the iron track that was buried under the ground around the house. Ellie had always let out a slight sigh at that bump, relaxing completely because it meant they were home. Dean's mouth tightened as that memory slipped in.

He pulled up in front of the porch and stopped the engine, turning to look into the back seat at the two sleeping children curled together there. They were home. That was something, he supposed.

"John? Rosie?"

The children stirred a little, John opening his eyes to look blearily at his father. "We there yet?"

Dean nodded. "Come on, unbuckle your sister and you guys can go straight to bed."

They got out of the tiredly but had regained some energy as they got into the house, with its familiar sights and sounds and smells.

"I'm hungry, Dad," John said, heading for the kitchen, Rosie trailing after him. Dean remained standing by the open front door for a moment longer, looking into the house. He walked in and shut the door behind them, keeping his eyes on the floor as he dropped the gear bag by the hall table and followed the children to the kitchen.

He made them scrambled eggs and toast, watching their heads drooping again as the warm food filled them, careful not to look around the room. Catching sight of the planner above the counter as he'd stirred the eggs, every note and reminder had leapt out at him, all of them saying the same thing. Not coming back. Not coming back. All those instructions and appointments would be up to him to keep now, because she wouldn't be there.

He watched Rosie's head dip as she pushed her egg around the plate and picked her up, looking at John.

"You done, buddy?"

His son nodded tiredly and slipped from the chair, walking out of the kitchen ahead of him and down the hall. They climbed the stairs to the bedrooms and in front of John's room, the little boy stopped suddenly.

"Can I stay in Rosie's room tonight, Dad?"

He nodded. The two of them had been curled up together in the motel bed the previous evening, and he couldn't see the point of denying them whatever comfort they could find in each other now. John darted into his room and came back out with his pyjamas in one hand, turning and walking down to the next bedroom door, pushing it open and going to sit on the edge of Rosie's bed as he pulled off his shoes.

Dean laid Rosie on the bed and found her pyjamas under her pillow, taking off the little girl's shoes and socks and jeans and top and easing her into the soft warm PJs. Her hair caught the light of the bedside lamp, gleaming copper against the white, butterfly-patterned sheets, and he swallowed roughly, shifting his gaze from it quickly and looking at his son.

"Ready?"

John nodded and crawled across the bed to the other side, pulling back the covers as Dean lifted Rosie onto her pillow. He drew the covers over them both, kissing them on the forehead as he tucked the quilts around them.

"Dad, I miss Mommy," John said very quietly as Dean switched off the lamp.

He let out his breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at John's face in the light spilling in from the hall.

"I know, I do too," he said, forcing the words past the obstruction in his throat.

"Will we see her again?"

He ducked his head, looking at his daughter's relaxed, sleeping features. "I don't think so, John."

He heard the sniffle and got up, walking around the bed and sitting down beside John, wrapping his arms around him as the boy began to shake. From beneath his tightly shut lids, he felt his own tears slipping out and rolling down his cheeks as his son's soaked into the shirt he was wearing. There was no end to this grief, he knew, no end to feeling as if things had changed in a such a way that the sunshine would never warm him again, the days and nights were always going to be too long, and his heart was always going to feel as it did now, shattered and torn and beating only out of habit, not because he wanted to live.

When the boy's shudders had slowed and eased and finally stopped, he looked down, wiping John's face gently with a finger and laying him onto the pillow. His son's eyes were closed, the lids swollen and reddened and for all he knew, his own were the same.

He got up and walked around the bed, pulling the door closed behind him. He felt drained. Empty. Exhausted. And he walked down the hall to the bedroom automatically, coming to a sudden stop as he reached the door, unable to push it open and go inside.

Everything in there would be a reminder of what was gone. He turned away after a moment and walked to the bathroom instead, going in and turning on the tap over the sink and splashing the cold water over his face until it stung. He turned off the taps and reached for the towel behind the door, his hand freezing as it closed around the soft terry-towelling fabric, his gaze fixed to the pale green silk robe that hung beside it.

There wasn't a place in this house that wasn't going to ambush him like this, he thought bitterly. Nowhere he could go where he wouldn't look up and see something and then have his mind fill with the images of her using it, wearing it, connected to it. He dried his face and hands on the towel and took a step closer to the door, his fingers curling around the silky material as he leaned closer and buried his face in it. At once, her scent enveloped him, and memories rushed in, his hands crushing the fabric as he tried to control them.

_Ellie_. Talking. Listening. Thinking. In childbirth and under him and beside him as they stalked through the darkness hunting some monster or other. Arguing and agreeing, filled with tension, with laughter, filled with love, with passion, with anger or gentle understanding, with sadness or a fierce determination or the wry humour that had gotten deep into him and caught there. _Ellie_. His breath hitched in his chest as he inhaled again.

He lifted the robe from the hook and went out of the bathroom, going downstairs and into the living room. In the cupboard, there was whiskey, and glasses, and he pulled them out and filled a glass, the robe tightly scrunched in one hand. Sitting on the long sofa, he swallowed the amber liquid and held the silk against the side of his face and closed his eyes in the semi-darkness of the big room.

The glass thumped down on the low table as everything he'd been holding back for the last two days trickled out, slowly, a little at a time at first, then faster, stronger, deeper, the anguish starting to claw into him, to tear away the pieces of his heart, to break through the walls of his mind, leaving him rigid, muscle and tendon and blood and bone locked solid as it ate through him and he couldn't think, could only feel.


	23. Chapter 23 Found

**Chapter 23 Found**

* * *

_**April 9.**_

Dean opened the door and looked at his brother. Behind Sam, Trish stood with Adrienne on one hip, Marc and Laura standing beside her, peering solemnly up at him.

"You know, if Mohammed won't come to the mountain …" Sam said dryly. Dean shrugged inwardly. He hadn't been in the mood for visiting.

"Back on your feet okay?" he asked, pulling the door wider and standing aside to let them in.

"Yeah, shoulder's gonna take a while but it's mostly okay," Sam said as he walked past. "How about you?"

His brother sighed slightly and closed the door behind them, looking at Marc and Laura. "John and Rosie are upstairs."

They nodded and ran for the stairs, small feet thumping on the treads as they disappeared.

"Dean," Tricia stepped in front of him, her face drawn and her eyes filled with misery. "I'm so sorry, I'm –"

"Forget it, Trish," Dean cut her off abruptly, knowing what she wanted to say, feeling an obscure satisfaction in not letting her do it. He didn't want to think about the days before they'd gone to Kansas, or what had happened there, or the days since. He was living in the moment and that was keeping him functioning for his kids.

"Just made a pot of coffee, if you want some," he said to no one in particular, walking away from them to the kitchen. Sam glanced at Trish and shook his head slightly, following Dean down the hall. Trish turned and walked up the stairs.

Leaning against the doorway of the kitchen and watching his brother as he pulled down mugs and poured out the rich-smelling black coffee, Sam could see that Dean was a long way from being anywhere near all right. His eyes were red and the lids swollen, made more obvious by the deep shadows that lined the sockets and lay under the sharp-edged cheekbones. He could see the tension and rigidity in his brother's back clearly.

"You sleeping?" he asked lightly as he walked in and sat down at the table. Dean looked up, carrying two cups. He noticed that Trish wasn't there and glanced back at the third, shrugging slightly.

"No," he said bluntly, setting Sam's cup in front of him and sitting down at the other end of the table with his own. "And to save you some time pussyfooting around all the other things you want to know, yes, I'm eating, no, I'm not drinking myself into oblivion every night, yes, I'm taking care of the kids. I'm trying not to think about anything and the pain is killing me."

He ducked his head and sipped the hot coffee. Sam looked down at his cup.

"Is there anything we can do?" he asked tentatively. "Take the kids for a while?"

"No," Dean said tersely, looking up at him. "No, I need them."

Sam nodded, understanding. The children were the only reason Dean was still on his feet, he realised. The only reason he was still talking, still opening the front door when someone knocked. He thought of how he'd been, when his brother had been taken to Hell, and he closed his eyes.

"I'm … functioning, Sam," his brother said quietly. "That's about as good as it's gonna get. Don't ask me for more."

"I know," Sam agreed straight away. "Rudy told us what happened, but he didn't know the details, didn't understand how it all –"

"Don't," Dean said, anger a bright edge in his voice. "I can't – I can't tell you about that. Ask Cas, or Sariel."

Sam nodded uncomfortably. "It wasn't your fault, Dean."

His brother let out a sharp bark of disbelieving laughter at that. "You think I'm blaming myself, Sammy?" He shook his head. "Or anyone else?"

"No." He looked at Sam, his eyes haunted and weary and hopeless. "It was Fate … or Destiny, God's will, whatever you want to call it." He gestured helplessly around the room, dropping his gaze to the tabletop. "There was no way I could get what I wanted and not have an expiry date on it."

"Dean," Sam said softly, staring at him. Dean raised his head.

"I can hear her, Sammy, sometimes, in the night," he said. "I couldn't sleep in our – room, for a while. But since … I can hear her voice. Sometimes I can hear what she's saying, sometimes it's just the sound of her voice …" he trailed away, shaking his head.

"Dean, that's normal," Sam said, leaning forward. "It happens."

Dean shook his head again, his throat closed too tightly to speak.

"Don't deal with this alone, not again, not now," Sam said. "Please, let us help."

"W-w-what the fu-huck can y-you do, Sam?" he said, the words emerging cracked and broken through the thickness in his throat. "You can't he-elp me."

He stood up abruptly, the chair grating harshly over the floor behind him, looking at the doorway. "Can you, uh, let yourselves out, man? I gotta – go …"

Sam nodded as he left the room, listening to the boot steps go down the hall, the front door open and close.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon. April 18.**_

Dean was leaning over the engine bay of the Impala when he heard the sound of wings fluttering softly in the garage. He didn't look up.

"Dean," Castiel said from behind him.

"What do you want, Cas?"

"Uh, I wanted to, um, see how you are," the angel said awkwardly. Dean sighed and straightened up, turning around and leaning against the side of the car, looking at the angel stonily.

"Alright. You've seen."

"Dean …"

"Cas, so not in the mood for talking right now," he said abruptly, waving a hand to the engine behind him. "Things to do."

"Sam's worried about you, a lot of people are worried about –"

"I'm fine," Dean cut him off, turning back to the engine. "Just busy."

"You know Ellie wouldn't have wanted you to –"

Dean swung around, his eyes narrowed and dark with fury. "No, she wouldn't have, but you know what? She would've understood why I was and she wouldn't have kept nagging me to let go, move on, face the facts, or any of the other fucking bullshit that everyone keeps throwing at me. She would've let me be!"

The angel looked at the floor and Dean turned away, throwing the wrench in his hand at the wall above the bench, the heavy metal tool clanging harshly against the lining and clattering as it bounced off and hit the floor.

"Just leave me alone," he said, leaning on the side of the car, his eyes closed. "Please."

"Of course," Cas said. There was a faint flutter and the garage was empty again.

It'd been two fucking weeks, that was all. All the time he'd had to accept that everything he'd believed was his had gone. People grieved for months, for years and no one would give him two fucking weeks.

He couldn't live with that pain. It ate through him like acid and ripped through him like a chainsaw when he let his thoughts turn toward her, and made every night an often futile exercise in finding a balance between consciousness and indifference, finding that precise line where he didn't think at all, was hardly aware of himself or the house or anything at all. Where he could drift, not being.

He slept in the bed they'd shared and his dreams were an ongoing carousel of need and fear, of desire and anguish, all of them crushing him with their memories and leaving him wrung out and exhausted every morning, the pillows wet with his tears and the sheets damp with his cum, not knowing how to get free of any of it.

And he was still hearing her voice, sometimes louder, sometimes softer, sometimes just barely at the edge of his senses, feeling her close, riven with a desperate need to just be able to hold her, to feel her in his arms. He'd snapped at John twice last week, driven by that desperation and washed in shame afterwards, seeing his little boy's face shocked, and a little afraid of the harshness in his voice.

He leaned over the engine, his head on his forearm, breathing deeply as he tried to shove it all back again. After a moment, he admitted that it wasn't going, and he pushed himself off the car, turning and walking back to the house, to the cupboard and the bottle that would give him a little time of not-thinking, not-feeling peace.

* * *

_**April 30.**_

_You can't hold everything in a fixed position. Life isn't like that. Change is the way it all works._

_I can't accept that. I won't. Please. Don't leave. Don't leave me here alone again._

_You're not alone, Dean. There are people around you who love you, who worry about you._

_I don't want them! I want you – I want you here._

_I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to be this way._

_Please … please … Ellie …_

He woke suddenly, hearing the whisper clearly in the silence of the room.

_I love you …_

"Ellie?"

Sitting up, he looked frantically around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the dim room that was lit only by the greyish light of the quarter moon outside. The EMF meter was on, but it was silent, dark, lying on the nightstand beside the lamp.

He lay back against the pillow, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. He could live without her, putting one foot in front of the other, getting through each day, doing whatever it was he had to do. He dragged himself out of the bed every morning and showered and dressed and went downstairs to make breakfast for the kids, taking them to school and pre-school on weekdays, taking them to the park or down to Portland or to the sea on the weekends. He made sure they ate their food, and brushed their teeth and had their baths. He held them when they cried in the night and read to them and played with them. He talked to the people who lived around him and answered questions and offered solutions and listened to plans … and through all of that, for every moment of every day, he screamed inside and beat his fists against the glass wall encasing him and wished for something different. Something impossible.

He could live without her, but he couldn't _live_ without her. Food tasted of nothing, dust and ashes in his mouth, choked down with whiskey. The colours of the flowers, blooming in the garden with the spring warmth, were faded and grey. Nothing could make him feel warm. The very thought of touching someone else, having someone else touch him, made him recoil with a bitter revulsion. Where she used to be, inside of him, there was nothing but a field of shattered glass and he cut himself to shreds every time he went near it.

"I can't do this," he whispered to the empty room.

_I want you to be happy_

He rolled over onto his elbow, looking around again. He'd _heard_ that. "Ellie?"

Silence answered him.

* * *

_**May 12.**_

Sam moved to one side of the drive as he saw the black car back slowly out of the garage, the engine's deep rumble sweet and perfect. Dean reversed back up to the front of the house and stopped, pulling on the handbrake but leaving the engine running as he got out.

He glanced at his brother and turned away, taking a few steps back from the car and closing his eyes as he listened. She sounded awesome, he thought, deeply satisfied. Perfect again.

Walking back to the car he leaned inside and turned the key, looking around at Sam.

"Sounds good," Sam offered, looking at the car. Not only sounded good, he realised. Dean had spent the last month in the garage, and the car looked like a million dollars as well, the deep black paint reflecting the sky and garden and house and man like a highly polished mirror.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "You wanna beer?"

He walked up the steps to the front door and went inside and Sam followed, wondering how he was going to frame what he'd come to say.

In the kitchen, Dean pulled a couple of beers from the fridge and passed Sam one, leaning back against the counter as he twisted off the top.

"Might as well get it out, Sam," he said mildly. "I'm guessing you came to say something."

Sam glanced down and back to him. "Yeah, I wondered if you're ready to have a memorial service?"

Dean looked at him, his expression flattening out to a cold stare. "No."

"Father Monserrat has been calling," Sam said carefully. "And a lot of other people have been asking about it … they just want to pay their respects, Dean."

"You must have me confused with someone who gives a rat's about what other people want, Sam."

"If you don't want to be a part of it, that's fine," Sam said. "But we're having a service at the church next Sunday. Father Dougherty agreed to have it after his morning mass."

Dean rubbed his hand over his jaw, staring at his brother in disbelief. "You just can't let it be, can you?"

"Dean, this isn't about how you're feeling. We get that," Sam said placatingly. "Other people need some sense of closure, and that's all it is."

Closure. Fuck he hated that word. As if the chapter was finished and all it needed was to close it and that would be the end of it. No one ever specified how it worked, though, how the whole thing worked, when it would stop or if it would ever stop, that fragile, crystalline feeling inside that was ready to break again with the wrong word, the wrong thought, the wrong image.

He looked at Sam's face and felt his anger subside abruptly. Sam looked guilty and worried and he knew it hadn't been his brother's idea to do this. He dragged in a deep breath and gestured to the table.

"Sit down," he said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it, his bottle clunking on the table top. "It's fine, Sam. If you want have it, go ahead."

Sam pulled out a chair and sat down, tipping his bottle up and swallowing a mouthful in relief. "Will you go?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, but he swallowed it, shrugging. "I don't know."

"It's not getting easier." It wasn't really a question.

"I didn't expect it to," Dean answered it honestly, curling his hands around the bottle and staring at it. He raised his gaze to his brother, his mouth twisting up at one side deprecatingly. "All the books, you know, they keep saying, go through the memories, remember everything good, but that … uh … that hurts worse."

Sam hid his surprise at the admission, both that Dean was reading about letting go, and that he was trying.

"It's different for everyone," he offered hesitantly. "I sure as shit didn't handle Jess' death in a healthy way, and it took years."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean said dryly. He was silent for a moment, then he leaned forward a little. "I can still hear her, Sammy. More now, than before. Clearer. I figure – I figured that if I'd better get a handle on this, figure out if it's me or just … grief."

Sam frowned. "What does she say?"

"The usual stuff, I guess," Dean said vaguely. "Things I want to hear, mostly things I want to hear."

"But –"

"It's not her spirit, Sam," Dean interrupted, seeing Sam's thought in his face. "No EMF at all. That's why I thought … well, I just want to make sure I'm not –"

Sam nodded. "Right. Yeah, of course."

"It's not like I haven't had plenty of practice at this," he said, with a rueful grimace. "I don't handle it all that well, but this … this is …"

"I know," Sam said quietly. "No one expects you to be fine, you know."

Dean exhaled gustily and finished his beer. "So … what's going on?"

Sam looked away, shrugging. "Not much right now. Garth took off to look at haunting. Rudy took his crew back to Maine. Charlie went with them. Carl and Adam have been helping Jeremy to get the Michigan place closed up for the time being. Soleil and Callie got back to Jasper a week ago, and Jim and Ginny and Red took off. Dwight and Katherine got home yesterday."

"No big monster explosions?"

"No, the mutations we were seeing starting dying out, about two weeks ago, according to Frank. He said that the bodies that have been found were hopeless, non-viable for survival, the deformities too extreme. So it seems like the populations might settle back to normal or a little less by the end of the year. Frank'll keep an eye on it anyway."

"That's good then," Dean said, feeling suddenly tired. "Anyone tried to take a shot at the Watcher's kids?"

Sam shook his head. "With everything that happened, everyone was shell-shocked for a while and they just … forgot about it, I guess."

Dean nodded. "Whole shake up in Heaven too."

"Yeah, Cas said it was a mess but Amaros has reorganised most things."

"Maybe they'll mind their own business for awhile."

Sam smiled wryly. "Maybe."

Dean stood up, tossing his bottle in the trash can and going to the window. The garden was neat, the lawn mown and the shrubs clipped and the beds rioting with colour. He saw John in the tree-house, reaching down to grip his sister's hand as she climbed up the ladder to join him. Behind him, he heard his brother's deep exhale.

"Do you still pray, Sam?" he asked, turning around.

Sam nodded, a little self-consciously. "Yeah, still do."

The corner of Dean's mouth lifted slightly. "You always had more hope than I did."

"I guess."

"I'm tired, Sam," he said very quietly, looking down at the floor. "I'm so goddamned tired."

"I know you are, Dean," Sam said, his face twisting as he looked at his brother.

Dean shook his head slightly and walked back to the table. "If you're praying, send one up for me, ask him to make it stop hurting so much."

He walked out of the room and Sam heard his feet on the stairs.

"I have, I am," he whispered, getting up. "Every night, man."

* * *

_**May 16.**_

The suit hung a little on him, Dean thought as he looked at it critically in the mirror. He'd been training, a couple of hours a day, usually with Oran, sometimes with Sam. But he hadn't put the weight back on that had gone in the last couple of months.

It was a nice suit, for a suit. A deep charcoal grey with threads of green woven imperceptibly into the fabric that relieved the darkness of the colour and, she'd said, brought out the colour of his eyes. His mouth twisted slightly at that memory. He didn't see it himself, straightening the tie and easing up under the collar of the off-white shirt.

"Dad, do I look alright?"

He turned around and looked at his son, standing in the doorway, wearing a dark blue suit and tie as well, his hair damp and combed flat.

"Yeah, you look sharp, buddy," he said, ignoring the need to swallow and forcing himself to smile. "Where's Rosie?"

"In her room, she says the ribbons keep falling out," John said with a disdainful sniff on the problems of girls.

"Better sort that out then," Dean said, walking to the door of the bedroom as John spun around and ran up the hall.

"Don't forget the cuff-links."

He froze in the doorway, turning slowly to look around the room. It was empty, as it had been for the last two months. He glanced at the nightstand but the EMF was still silent and dark, the flashing LED showing that it was on, and working.

It had been her voice, a little dry, underlaid with a warm affection. He'd heard it as clearly as he'd heard John's voice. Not in his head.

He scanned the room again, looking in every corner, at the curtains, in the soft taupe shadows between the furniture and the walls. It was still empty. He walked back to the dresser and looked at the small, silver bowl that sat on top of it. She'd bought him two sets, for the rare occasions that they needed to get dressed up for something. One was plain silver. The other held polished agate stones, in a white-gold setting. Looking down at them, he took a deep breath.

"Which ones?"

"The silver ones."

He closed his eyes tightly. What the hell was happening to him? He thought he'd been making some progress, finding ways to accept that she was gone … but this, this was worse than it'd been before.

"Ellie?" he breathed her name.

This time, there was no answer. Maybe it was just in his head, maybe he was kidding himself about being able to let go. Maybe he really was holding on too hard and forcing his mind into these half-terrifying, half-comforting delusions.

His fingers scrabbled in the bowl for the silver cuff-links and closed tightly around them, and he swung around, walking fast out of the room.

* * *

Dean opened the front door and stopped dead, staring at the Impala. He'd had every intention of getting in the car and driving down to the church until this very moment, looking at the polished car, sitting out the front of the house, he realised he couldn't. Couldn't be with people when he said goodbye, couldn't face that in front of anyone else but John and Rosie.

He looked down at his children. "Uh, let's go for a walk."

John looked up at him, a faint frown drawing his brows together. "What about the church? I thought we were going to say goodbye to Mommy?"

"Yeah, we will," Dean said, crouching down in front of him and Rosie. The little girl was wearing a deep green dress, he'd never even seen it before, but it suited her, made her copper-red hair blaze against it, made her eyes even more like her mother's, the gold flecks bright against the jade green. "But just us. Not with everyone else."

He stood up and took their hands, walking down the steps and past the car, heading for the trail that led up through the woods to the clearing higher on the ridge. Neither child spoke, and he hoped that he was doing the right thing.

They came out into the small clearing, the valley spread out to the left, mountains far off in the distance and the peaks of the Cascades hidden from them on this side of the range. The clearing was surrounded by oaks, and John tugged free of his hand, running to the overhung hollow under one oak where the vixen had always had her cubs.

Dean sat down on the grass and looked across the valley, aware of John and Rosie's exploration but not concerned about it.

Letting go had always been his problem, he thought sourly. And it wasn't the guilt or the responsibility he'd felt, it was wanting to go back. Never forward. Only back. For eight years, he'd lived a life that had gone forward, in fits and starts sometimes, but he hadn't looked back, certainly not in the last six years. Was he going to undo that now, cling to what he'd had and miss out on his children's lives in that desperate need?

He wouldn't be the man he was now if he hadn't known her, if she hadn't loved him, if he hadn't taken a risk and let himself fall so deeply and so trustingly in love with her that understanding himself became not only possible, but essential. Wouldn't have what he had now.

He'd thought that all this was his forever. And, he guessed, in a way it was. No one could take away his memories, the things he'd learned, the man he'd become. No one could take this life from him, even if she wasn't there to share it anymore. The pain would stay, he thought, because everything came with a price. It might become more bearable, as time passed. It might not. He didn't know, couldn't imagine.

The life was still here. His children were here, incredible gifts that they'd made together. That was important. That was what he needed to keep his focus on, all the things they'd made together.

John dropped beside him, his face flushed with exertion, leaning against him with the casual insouciance of complete trust. Rosie ran up a moment later, thumping into his lap and wrapping her arm around his neck.

He listened to their breathing, felt Rosie's heartbeat against his chest, John's against his arm. They were real and here and they needed him. And he needed them.

"Did Mommy die?" John asked, looking up at him.

Dean felt the automatic desire to deny it. It didn't do anyone any good to pretend. Not him. Not them.

"Yeah, John. I think she did."

"You said she disappeared," John said slowly.

"I know," Dean sighed. "I didn't want to admit that she died, wanted to tell myself that maybe …" He shrugged, putting his arm around the boy and pulling him closer.

"I don' want her to be dead," Rosie said abruptly.

"Me either, sweetheart." Dean looked down at her. "Sometimes things happen, and there's no reason for it, nothing we can understand. Bad things happen and we just have to accept them."

"Jessie's mommy died, last year," John said. "Jessie says he misses her, every day."

Dean nodded, not sure who Jessie was, one of the kids at the school maybe. He wondered if John had talked about that with Ellie. She hadn't mentioned it if he had.

"We're going to miss your Mom, too, John," he said. "Every day. For a long time."

"It hurts, inside, when I miss Mommy." John pressed his face against his father. "It makes me feel bad."

"I know," he said. "Maybe we need to remember the good things about Mom, remember the things when we were happy, so that it doesn't hurt so much."

"Is Mommy in the ground?" Rosie lifted her face to his and he saw a little fear in the wide green eyes.

"No, baby, she's not," he said, kissing her forehead. "She just kind of … disappeared, and there wasn't anything left."

"Rudy told me the angels took her away." John looked down and Dean saw his lashes trembling.

"I don't know, maybe they did," he hedged, unsure of what he wanted to tell them about that. His mother had believed in the goodness of angels. He couldn't.

"Are you going to find another Mom for us?"

He looked down at John's face with a frown. "No – why do you think I would?"

"Jessie's Dad got married, before Christmas, and he told Jessie and his brother that the lady was Jessie's new Mom."

_Christ_, he thought tiredly. "Oh … uh, I don't think so, John. I … don't – there's no one who can really – I don't think so," he said awkwardly. He couldn't imagine it, for himself.

"Jessie doesn't like his new Mom," John confided in a relieved voice. "He says she isn't nice."

"Uh …" He didn't know what to say to that. "That's not going to happen, John."

"Can we pray to Mommy?" Rosie shifted around on his legs, settling herself against the crook of his arm.

"Yeah, I think that would be a good idea, Rosie. We can say goodbye."

* * *

Dean looked at the cars in his drive as he walked down the trail, Rosie sitting on his shoulders, John's hand in his.

"Can we play with Marc and Laura?" John asked, recognising his uncle's car.

Dean nodded, crouching down for Rosie to scramble off as John ran down the path. He walked to the house, looking quizzically at Sam as he came up to the porch.

"Nice suit," Sam said, one brow lifted slightly. "Were you going to come?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but I couldn't."

He looked at Cas and Amaros, both standing behind his brother. "Angel visit? How'd I get so lucky?"

"They, uh, went to the service, Dean," Sam said, glancing at them. "I told them that you were still hearing Ellie, and they wanted to ask you about it."

Dean pushed the front door open, his mouth twisting up slightly. "Sure. Why not."

Sam glanced at him as he walked past and into the house, but he couldn't see any signs that Dean was pissed at him.

"Where do you hear her, Dean?" Cas asked when they were standing in the hallway.

"In the bedroom," Dean answered shortly.

"Anywhere else?" Amaros looked at him intently. The angel's construct was as it had always been, but the wings were now invisible … or hidden somehow.

"No."

"Can we see the bedroom?" Cas looked up the stairs.

"Be my guest," Dean said, gesturing to the stairs. "She's not there."

He followed them up the stairs, waiting until they walked into the bedroom before going in, absently loosening his tie and taking it off and throwing it across the bed as he watched them move around the room, Sam holding an EMF that remained resolutely silent.

"Have you let go?"

He froze by the dresser, closing his eyes. "I thought I had," he breathed.

"I miss you too."

"Dean?"

He turned around and looked at Sam, his eyes filled with pain.

"Did you hear that?"

He nodded, then frowned at the implication, looking from his brother to the angels.

Amaros looked at Castiel. "She's not a spirit. I heard her too."

"You heard her?" Dean asked disbelievingly, his thoughts churning furiously.

"Yes, quite clearly. She said she misses you too." Castiel said, looking around the room. "You're not delusional, Dean."

His attention sharpened suddenly and Dean followed his eyeline to the framed photograph that stood on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Ellie's side.

"Where did you get this?" Castiel crossed the room and picked up the smoky crystal pendant that he'd looped over the photograph frame when he'd found it in his jeans pocket.

"I don't know. Ellie was wearing it, that day," he said, staring at the angel's tense face. "Why?"

Castiel closed his hand tightly around the pendant, his eyes shutting. "This is node-stone."

He opened his eyes and looked at Amaros. The archangel frowned, walking to him and holding out his hand. Castiel dropped the pendant into it.

"What's 'node-stone'?" Sam asked curiously.

"It's a crystal that is sometimes found in the nodes of the ley lines," the angel said shortly. "It has … special … properties, properties that no other stone on earth has."

"What kind of properties?" Dean asked, his voice deepening.

Amaros turned to look at him. "Well, for one thing it can hold the essence of a person."

"What?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. "How?"

"Where did Ellie get this?" Castiel ignored Sam, staring intently at Dean.

"I don't know," he said, looking at the crystal in the archangel's hand. "She was just wearing it, that morning. I saw it when she was getting dressed."

"The Rom had a ritual, a spell, to hold the victim inside a crystal," Amaros said, looking at Castiel. "Did Ellie have any dealings with them recently?"

"We had a job, months ago. We saw a family about lifting a curse."

"Did she accept something from them?" Castiel asked. "It's important, Dean. Very important."

"I don't know," he said, spreading his hands out helplessly. "She said that the negotiations were successful and …" He closed his eyes, trying to remember back to the drive home. To what she'd said about the Aljenicato family. "She had to take something as the favour for the cooperation of the woman who'd put the curse on Garth. She said it was a locket. When she got home …"

He opened his eyes and looked at the angel. "She put it in the safe."

"I'll check it," Sam said over his shoulder as he went out of the room, running down the hall for the stairs.

Dean looked at Cas, feeling his stomach coiling and uncoiling, filled with butterfly shivers as the possibilities filled his mind. He couldn't make himself think of it clearly, skirting around the hope like a wary animal, sniffing at it but not approaching.

"What was the name of the family, Dean?" Amaros said, dragging his attention back from his thoughts.

"Aljenicato. The woman's name was Jofranka."

The archangel disappeared, the curtains and bed spread fluttering with the breeze of his departure.

"Cas …" Dean turned back to the angel, his hands closing into fists.

"I don't know, Dean," Castiel said sharply. "We heard her as well. But I don't want to raise your hopes until we're certain."

"Too late," he muttered to himself, turning away from the angel and going to the window distractedly.

They both turned as they heard the pounding of Sam's on the stairs and along the hall.

"Safe's got nothing in it like that," he said, dragging in a lungful of air. "Could she have met them, sometime? Handed it back?"

Dean shook his head in frustration. "I don't know. I didn't see anyone. And she didn't mention it."

"Then she could've known – could've worn it deliberately, in case –?" Sam pressed, looking from Dean to Castiel.

"If she'd known what the crystal did, why would she still be trapped?" Dean demanded, hearing the edge to his voice.

"Perhaps she didn't know what it did," Castiel said slowly. "Perhaps she doesn't know where she is, only knows that she can hear you somehow."

Dean turned away from the room, looking back out the window. He didn't know what to think about it – any of it – feeling his heartbeat accelerating with his hope.

* * *

The sound of beating wings filled the room and he felt the air brush against him. Amaros stood in the room with an old woman beside him, her jet-black hair mostly hidden beneath a richly coloured and intricately woven shawl, her face dark and wrinkled.

"Can you release her?" Amaros said abruptly, holding the pendant out to Jofranka.

"She wore it then, to the meeting of the firstborn?" Jofranka stared at the pendant. "I couldn't see that far ahead."

"Is she alive?" Dean walked across the room, stopping in front of her.

"Oh yes, boy, still alive." She held out a bony and withered hand to the archangel and Amaros laid the pendant and necklace in it. "The power burned through her but the stone caught her as she was shattered."

Dean heard his knuckles crack, distantly, as he tightened his fists. Jofranka looked at him, smiling slightly.

"Everything is energy, boy. It cannot be destroyed or created. It can only change form."

She crouched down, laying the pendant on the floor and gesturing impatiently around her for the men and angels to move back. Dean heard her muttering something, low and soft, the language unknown to him, rising and falling fluidly like a song with no words.

On the creamy carpet, the node-stone lit up, a pinpoint of light forming in its heart, the faceted cut of the stone spreading the light around it and upward, to the ceiling, growing stronger as the Roma's voice strengthened.

There was a sharp crack and the light disappeared, and Dean stared down at the crystal on the floor, broken in half, it's heart dark and lifeless now. His gaze snapped to Jofranka, who knelt on the floor with her eyes closed, panting slightly from the exertion.

"Where is she?"

"What happened?"

It was Ellie's voice and he looked around, seeing her standing behind the old woman, near the doorway. She was naked, lifting a hand to her head and looking around in confusion. He saw a small cut, just below her eye, still trickling a thread of blood down her face. He didn't know he was moving, didn't feel himself move, he was just there, his arms going around her, feeling her solid against him, breathing in her scent deeply, his eyelids fluttering shut as her arms crept around him.

Sam looked away, turning to the angels, dragging in a deep breath as relief filled every cell. Castiel looked at the floor, his face expressionless but the slump in his shoulders showing his own relief.

Amaros looked down at Jofranka, who picked up the two pieces of the pendant and tucked them into her clothes. He extended his hand and drew her to her feet.

"You angels," she said testily. "You think you're the only ones who know about the planes and the flow of O Del's energy through the conduits of the universe? Hmmf."

Cas looked at Sam quizzically, seeing the man's brow wrinkling up. Neither said anything.

"Take me home," she commanded the archangel imperiously. "I am too old for this kind of adventure anymore."

Amaros inclined his head, glancing at Cas and Sam over her head for a moment, then drawing the woman close to him, his wings curving protectively around her. They vanished and the curtains swayed again.

"We should probably leave them alone," Cas suggested uncomfortably, walking past the bed toward the doorway.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, edging past his brother and reaching to close the door behind them.

* * *

Dean couldn't take his eyes off her, some part of him afraid that if he looked away, she would disappear and he'd be alone again. He couldn't stop touching her either, not even willing to rely on his eyes as a means of verifying that she was alive, and here, and real.

"What do you remember?" he asked, not caring, not really. Back was back and that was more than enough.

He'd put a plaster on the cut on her cheek, recognising it belatedly from the day she'd become the key. She was dressing, pulling on jeans, and that raised the memory of watching her do the same thing in Kansas.

"Not much," Ellie admitted, buttoning the fly. "I looked up and we were surrounded by angels. Then I woke up in a room, somewhere inside, I guess, on my own. Maluch turned up about an hour later and told me what had happened, told me that Michael was helping them now. I tried to make him see reason on that, but he didn't want to hear it."

Dean nodded. The nephilim hadn't wanted to see reason on anything.

"When the rational approach didn't work, I went for offence, but Idra came in before I could get past Maluch." She reached up and touched the cut on her face. "I remember Maluch doing this, and then nothing until twenty minutes ago when I was suddenly here."

He rubbed a hand over his face, watching her pull on a t-shirt and a soft flannel shirt over that.

"You disappeared," he said quietly. "When the door opened, we could still see Adrienne but not you. Amaros said that you tapped into his strength to pull the power from Adrienne to yourself."

She looked at him, feeling the weight of the pain in those memories, knowing how he'd felt.

"I didn't mean to happen that way, Dean." She sat down on the bed beside him, lifting her hand to his face.

He smiled a little. "Yeah, I know."

"I want to see John and Rosie, and … everyone else, I guess too." She got up and looked at him.

"They had a memorial service for you today, so, uh, there might be surprised people."

She snorted softly. "Did Jofranka say anything about the crystal?"

"No, just that everything was energy."

"True but vague," she said tartly. "It would've helped if she'd given me more advice than just a cliché about storms and willows!"

* * *

"Daddy said you went with the angels," Rosie said, glancing at her father accusingly. "He said we had to say goodbye."

Ellie tightened her arms around her daughter, looking over her head at Dean.

"I didn't know where Mom was," he explained to Rosie. "I thought she might've gone –"

Rosie shrugged a shoulder haughtily at him and pressed her face close to Ellie's neck. "I'm glad you came back," she whispered.

"Me too, sweetheart," Ellie said, closing her eyes. "I'm so glad to be back."

John looked at his mother and sister, then turned to his father. "Grownups can make mistakes too," he said confidingly. "I know you didn't mean to tell a lie, Dad."

Dean stared at him, hearing the muffled snort from Ellie. "Thanks, John."

Looking back at her, he raised a brow. "You could jump in anytime here, Ellie."

She smiled at him, a wide, warm smile that lit up her face. "To be honest, I wouldn't know where to start."

"Huh."

* * *

Dean held Rosie, watching as Tricia approached Ellie.

"I'm so sorry, Ellie," Trish said nervously, standing a foot from her sister-in-law. "I was just –"

"Don't think about it, Trish," Ellie said, stepping to her and hugging her. "I didn't pay any attention to what you said, you shouldn't either."

Well that let Trish off the hook, he thought with a small amount of bitterness. There probably wasn't any point to rehashing the things that had happened, and Trish had certainly acknowledged them, but it seemed to him to be too an easy a let-off. What his sister-in-law had said, in anger and fear, had still had its effects.

Behind Trish, Sam stood waiting. And in clumps around the room, the hunters and Watchers, the nephilim and their friends who weren't any of those things but were still connected, in different ways, to the life they lived, waited for their turn to see her, to touch her and prove to themselves that she was still with them.

He looked at his daughter, seeing her drooping eyelids and looked back at Ellie, lifting a brow slightly.

She nodded, disengaging herself from Trish, and turning to him, taking Rosie from him as he picked up John. There was no way she was going to miss out on putting them to bed tonight.

* * *

He watched her undress, the lamplight turning her pale skin to cream, catch in her hair. Lying there, watching her, he was aware that his pulse had accelerated again, his palms were lightly sweating, he was breathing a little too fast. There was a shivery, thundery feeling inside of him and he couldn't relax, couldn't just put the last nine weeks aside in his memories and pretend that everything was back to normal. He didn't think he'd ever be able to forget or bury the memories.

She slid into the bed next to him, and leaned on one elbow, looking at him for a moment.

"Too much to bear?"

He nodded, slipping his arms around her and pulling her close, his face buried against the side of her neck. He felt her hands stroke slowly over his shoulders, knew she could feel the rigidity in his body, his reactions overpowering, her touch soothing him at the same time as it sent crackling tendrils of lightning through him.

Ellie felt the first fine trembles in his muscles and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly as they escalated to a fast shivering, then became deep shudders that wracked his frame, shaking the bed with their force. He needed to let go of this too, this fear that he was dreaming, that he'd wake and it wouldn't be real, wouldn't be permanent.

She remembered literally nothing. He'd told her that she'd talked to him, that he'd heard her voice in this room, sometimes just saying the things he'd wanted so badly to hear, sometimes commenting on what he was doing or thinking. She didn't remember that although enough of her must have been coherent that she'd been able to see him, hear him.

For her, that time had not existed at all. It'd been a shock when he'd told her how long it had been, and seeing the agony in his eyes had sliced through her, knowing how it had been for him. She couldn't do anything about it, except be here and be real and hope that it would fade in time, overlaid by more memories, good memories.

He had let go. On his own and with no help or guidance from anyone else. That was a miracle in itself, she thought, wondering if he would realise the import of that achievement. He'd brushed it off when he'd told her, but Sam had filled in some of the gaps, and one day, she would raise it and they would talk about it. One day when it wasn't so close and raw.

For now, it was enough to just be again. To be here with him and their children, in their life, drinking in his scent, her lips against his skin, holding him close so he'd know she'd never let him go.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon. December 25.**_

Dean looked down the fully-extended table, over the dishes and baskets and bowls of food, past the steady flames of the candles. The dining room doors were pushed apart and he could see the tree from his chair, towering the ceiling, the gleam of the star at its peak, boughs bent down with decorations and tinsel.

At the table, his family, and their closest friends sat, side by side, their faces another year older, a few more lines, a little more grey threading their hair, lit up softly by the candlelight and firelight in the hearth to one side, smiling, talking, listening, laughing. Ellie and John and Rosie, Sam and Trish, Marc and Laura and Adrienne in the high chair, pushed closed to her father. Baraquiel and his partner, Talya, the beautiful red-haired nephilim's belly heavy with a child who would be born in the new year. Father Monserrat and Tatiana, Garth and Tamsin and their one-year-old son, Henry. Frank and his new wife, Rona, who had accepted the hunters with surprisingly little fuss. Twist and Carl and Dwight and Katherine, taking up the chairs at the end of the table and arguing amiably about the workload over the next few months. Faces that had become more than familiar to him, faces that had become family, people to put his back against and know they would never let him down.

He was eating with one hand, because the other was curled around Ellie's. She hadn't complained, deftly managing her fork and knife with the hand he'd left her, her fingers occasionally tightening around his, reminding him that it was real. All still real.

They'd spent the last seven months at home, more or less hermits within the small community, neither wanting to leave the children or the house or their friends. It'd taken him a long time to not follow her around, from room to room or up and down the garden, to feel that if he got on with something else, she would still be there when he returned. She'd known it, of course, and had stayed put or spent time with him, just talking, just listening, just waiting for him to find his way out of the mental labyrinth he'd built for himself.

On the mantle in the living room, there were a dozen framed portraits now, Ellie going through all their stuff, all of Bobby's and Rufus' and Jim's personal stuff, finding the old pictures of their lives and having them blown up and framed, her Christmas present to him, a tangible, touchable connection to his past.

The photographs and letters, documents and drawings had filled several albums and they too were in the shelves of the living room. He'd taken them down, looking through them, those surviving memories bringing back his own of the same times, of the lives of the friends they'd lost along the way. Energy is energy, the old Roma had said, it cannot be destroyed nor created, it can only change form. And remembering the dead was a way of not letting them truly die, Ellie had told him, sitting close beside him when he'd looked through them.

This was the glowing, real-life moment he'd looked for his whole life, this moment right here and right now, he knew. It could be taken away from him, but he'd always remember it, bright in his memory, everything he'd wanted, everything he needed, surrounding him and filling him and making everything worth the pain and the anguish and the suffering he'd endured to get here.

"Dean?" Dwight called from the end of the table, his voice raised only a little. "When are you back on deck again?"

He looked at Ellie, who lifted a brow at him and shrugged. "What've you got?"

"Possible skinwalker regrouping, in Pennsylvania, Jeremy eyeballed the town yesterday, said that there was a pack of thirty there, seemed to be more coming," Dwight said.

"You talk to Rudy about it?"

"Yeah, straight after Jeremy called." Dwight nodded. "He's got a team out looking for a vamp nest in upper NY state, said he could a few more."

Dean shook his head. "Ask for volunteers –"

Carl looked at Dean. "I'll go, with Idan and Tagi."

Ellie ducked her head, smiling slightly and he caught the movement and expression from the corner of his eye, his mouth tucking in at the corner.

"There you have it, Dwight."

"Rudy asked for you," Dwight persisted, flicking an apologetic glance at Carl. "He sounded … determined."

Dean sighed. "I'll call him tomorrow."

"Right."

* * *

The bedroom was lit by the gentle firelight, the flickering flames casting shadows that chased each other over their skin as they moved, the only sounds the rasp and hitch of their breathing and the low, almost soundless moans as touch drew out sensation and pleasure built and spread, a languorous wave through nerve and muscle, peaking close to unbearable satiation then falling away to leave them both hungry for more.

There was no rush, no sense of time at all, just their senses intimately involved with each other, a heightened awareness of touch and taste, of smell and sound and sight, each feeding into the next, supersensitising their skin and nerves, deepening perception and response, an attenuation of arousal that drowned them separately and together until there was no division between them, he could feel her pleasure and she could feel his, and inside her, he stroked into a furnace of pressure and reverberation, every thrust through the jittery vibrations surrounding him pulling at him to go deeper, harder, faster.

He'd thought he'd never feel this particular ecstasy again, the way it was between them and with no one else, and for the last few months, he'd been subliminally aware of that feeling, of making every second, every moment count, be treasured and remembered and held close. The unexpected result had been a deeper knowledge of each other, of sensation and feeling and an understanding of how they fit together, when itch turned to ache and ache stretched into yearning and yearning made every moment discrete. He felt her lift under him, felt her muscles close around him, felt her blood swelling the tissue inside of her and squeezing him hard and he felt himself cross the line, his muscles contracting sharply as she bucked under him, driving him deeper, taking his breath, taking his control and shredding it.

The aftershocks trembled through them, sparking along nerve endings that were already hypersensitive, and she laughed, low and soft, her cheek against his, her arms wrapped hard around him.

He lifted his head slightly, enough to see her eyes. "Merry Christmas, I guess?"

Ellie drew in a deep breath, the laughter fading from her face as she looked at him. "Let's make it a tradition."

* * *

_**35 miles north east of Mashhad, Iran. December 25.**_

"Terence," Collette Bennoit looked up from the narrow trench she was working in, her fingers remaining on the lump of clay she'd found buried there, turning her head to find her husband. She saw him a moment later, tipping a canteen of tepid water into his mouth in the shade of the white canvas tent.

"Terence!"

He lowered the canteen and stoppered it, putting it back in the deeper shade beneath the table and hurrying across the grey powdered dirt of the dig toward her.

"What is it?" He looked at the lump, one grey eyebrow lifted. "Lift it out."

"Have you seen this before?" Collette asked, her voice still firm and still holding a trace of a Parisian accent, though she'd been working in the Middle East for half a century and spoke more fluently in Arabic than either English or the language of her country of birth. She pushed back the loose tendril of silver hair that had escaped the white cotton headscarf she wore and looked at her husband's expression.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly, getting to his feet and extending a hand to her to help her out of the trench. "The Wasiid would coat rare objects in clay and bury them, the clay would help to preserve and protect the objet from harm."

"This is older – a lot older – than the Wasiid, Terence," Collette said tersely. "I don't even recognise half of the cuneiform we've seen on the artefacts that were nearer the surface."

"I know," he replied, walking to the tent, his wife following him closely. "This will be just a protective covering, though."

"Perhaps," Collette said, ducking under the canvas flap and going to the table, clearing their notes and the laptop from its surface and spreading out a smooth sheet of clean, white cotton over it.

"Pass me the small chisel," he said, setting the clay down on the table. "And the ball hammer."

She passed him the tools, watching as he found a small crack in the clay's surface and set the narrow-edged chisel delicately against it. He tapped the chisel's haft once, sharply and they both started as the clay fell apart, precisely into four pieces, revealing what had been hidden inside.

The shock wave came a fraction of a second later, knocking them to the floor of the tent, spreading outward in an invisible surge of power. It passed from Israel to the west and Afghanistan to the east in a heartbeat, growing and travelling faster and faster, leaving a wake of unexplained births, deaths and small, localised disasters in its path.

It crossed the borders of China two minutes after the clay had been split, racing across the vast Pacific Ocean eastwards, and hit the eastern shore of the United States of America a minute earlier, the two edges meeting over the Cascade Mountains, in Oregon at 12.54 am precisely.

* * *

_**The Willamette, Oregon. December 26. 12:54 am.**_

John sat up in bed and screamed. In the room down the hall, Rosie sat bolt upright, her high-pitched wail filling her room at the same time.

In the big house two doors down the street, Sam jerked awake as he heard his children's screams – all three of them in their different rooms.

* * *

**END**


End file.
